For You
by wbss21
Summary: Yet another take on Harley Quinn's origin story, but hopefully with some fresh, new interpritations and twists. I will be adding one chapter a week. Hope you enjoy! Rated Mature for some scenes of graphic violence.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, plot, etc. are the property of DC Comics. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

On her first day of internship at Gotham City's Arkham Asylum for the criminally insane, Dr. Harleen Quinzel found herself being led through the buildings numerous corridors by Dr. Joan Leland, an experienced and long time resident of the infamous institution who had been assigned as the freshly graduated psychiatrists guide and mentor. The first thing Dr. Quinzel noted, as she was led through the various wings housing the places many inmates, each area of a varying security level, each separated by a floor, was how the building began to transform from something reminiscent a nursing home, to that of a maximum security penitentiary. Where the guards had been few and far between up above, she wasn't even sure she had seen any except for a nice man named Emanuel at the check in desk in the lobby, they suddenly were everywhere, at every corner, around every thick metal door they past by. Up top, she had been aware of certain patients allowed to roam the hall ways, or if they were somehow incapacitated, carted around in wheel chairs by the myriad of orderlies on hand. But the further they crept in to the bowels of the asylum, the heavier the atmosphere grew. And despite the more intense level of noise, Dr. Quinzel noted that the screams of anguish and despair seemed to grow in volume as they entered the highest security level of the institute, the air below was strangely dead, subdued, bringing an eerie, almost menacing calm to the space. There was no conversation here, no exchange of pleasantries or idol chatter. Everyone held a look of extreme stoicism and, Harleen noticed, all their faces were drawn and exhausted, bags showing visibly beneath the eyes of the nurses and security staff alike.

Already the young doctor began to recognize some of the names which stood out in bold, steel lettering from the placards across the barricaded cell doors. Where most of the names she'd come across on the uppermost levels had been largely unknown to her, every pen she past here bore a patient she had, at some point or another, heard about on the evening news or read about in the Gotham Gazette. Of course, there had been some in the mid-level security area she recalled hearing of, such as Pamela Isley, better known to Gotham City residents as Poison Ivy. She had peered in to the strange woman's cell for a few, brief moments, curious because she had been told, to begin her internship, she would most probably have the opportunity to serve as therapist to the often dubbed "bio-terrorist". Isley had killed, Dr. Quinzel knew, which led her to question why the inmate was considered only to be a mid-level security risk, and it had been explained to her that Pamela Isley was not a violent personality, that there had never been any incidents involving her which had resulted in physical harm to any of the staff. She had escaped now and then, but never through force or her own planning, only through having been freed by some external cause, and at those times she had simply walked out, never bothering or attempting to hurt anyone along the way. Then there was Edward Nigma, also known as The Riddler. He too was regarded as a mid-level security risk. Very intelligent, but not violent. He didn't kill, as far as Harleen was aware, but he did at times attempt to leave the facility, and he had to be looked after with a fairly vigilant eye, as he often outsmarted the system and was continually coming up with newer and better ways to beat it each time out.

But down here? Down here were the patients regarded more so as prisoners. Arkham was an institution for the "criminally insane", but until you reached this particular area, you couldn't possibly begin to comprehend or appreciate what that term actually meant. Dr. Quinzel walked gingerly along the corridors, listening as her guide gave a brief introduction and description of each inmate they past by.

Dr. Jonathan Crane, known to Gotham residents as The Scarecrow, and formally one of the countries leading psychiatrists himself, until he went mad and began testing a specially developed, fear inducing toxin on his patients. He had only gotten worse since that time, craving more and more to see his victims writhe around in agony, gripped by visions of their nightmares seemingly come to life.

Or Harvey Dent, Gotham City's once sterling and proud District Attorney, driven to insanity after having acid hurled in his face by Sal Maroni, former head of the Maroni crime family. He was now known by most as Two-Face, due to one side of his visage having been burned completely away, while the other side remained in tact, as boyishly handsome as it had ever been.

And Waylon Jones, recognized largely as Killer Croc, a misshapen man cursed with an appearance closer resembling that of a reptile then a human being, and possessing a strength also more akin to that of the cold-blooded creature he was named after.

Dr. Harleen Quinnzel wasn't a woman easily shaken, however, and she walked the halls with an apparent air of confidence and focus. The young psychiatrist had graduated from Gotham University with top honors, as head of her class, and Dr. Jeremiah Arkham, heir to and head of the asylum, had been impressed with her credentials, and her show of bold determination in wanting to work there. She was smart, and she was driven, and you needed to be both to last more then a few weeks in a place like this.

Her eyes kept to wondering over each name plate, observing with more curiosity then fear. The cells down here, unlike up top, did not allow her to look inside, the only window in being a small, barred space near the top of each door, above her head, and a slot which could open only from the outside, obviously for pushing plates of food and water through. Dr. Leland continued to talk, but her voice drifted in to the background as Harleen came to a stop in front of what appeared to be the final holding pen of the corridor, her attention caught by the placard across the thick metal. Every other plate she had seen bared the inmate's given name. As was to be expected, the doctors and staff here were told never to refer to any of the patients by their adopted titles, as it only further encouraged and validated the persona they had created to go with it. But here she stood, gazing along a name plate with the letters ironed out as distinctly as on any other, and what it said momentarily vexed her. _Unknown_. It read Unknown, a four digit serial number printed in smaller lettering underneath, as with every other resident of the place. She couldn't work that out, her mind confusing, drawing blank on an explanation. The idea that the cell might be empty crossed her thoughts for a brief moment, but then, that didn't make any sense either. The door would simply been devoid of _any_ name had that been the case. No, this plate bore a name, or at least, a title, a means of identification.

She flicked her vision up to the barred space above, and nearly jumped, her heart catching in her throat as she saw two eyes looking down upon her, watching her. And she starred back, transfixed, noticing then their color. Such an unusual, unnatural color. A bright, almost florescent green, pure and clear, seemingly devoid of any shade but that one alone. And she realized all too suddenly whose eyes it was she was starring in to, and for the first time since entering this place, she felt a chill run up her spine and her fingers go vaguely numb.

"Dr. Quinzel!" She was shaken out of her mesmerized state by the sound of Joan's voice, a slight hint of urgency running through it. She blinked, finally looking away and towards her mentor, who had turned and was now walking quickly in her direction.

"Is that…" She heard her own voice begin.

Leland didn't answer her, didn't even seem to hear her, but simply grabbed hold of Harleen's arm and pulled her away gently, but with purpose.

"It's best to not linger, I still have much of the facility to show you."

Dr. Quinzel looked back as the older woman dragged her away and saw the same, unblinking eyes still watching her, following her down the hallway.

"But… his name?" She asked. "Doesn't he have a real name?"

She had never heard The Joker referred to by any title other then that one, it was true. But then, she had never realized it was for any reason other then sensationalism on the part of the media and press. They so often referred to all the well known criminal's by their easier to remember handles.

"We don't know his real name." Dr. Leland answered her quickly, nearly cutting her off, continuing to pull her along. "We don't know a damn thing about that one." Her voice held a noticeable amount of irritation and distress as she spoke, and she had seemed to mumble that last remark to herself more then to Dr. Quinzel, peaking Harleen's interest even further.

"How is that possible? How can you not know his real name?"

Dr. Leland stopped moving then, turning to the young doctor. "Harleen, it's probably best you don't worry about it." She lifted her head in the direction of The Joker's cell. "He's a... special case." She paused, eyeing her protégé with a look of warning. "And he's dangerous." She said flatly before turning away. "So let's move on, shall we?"

Harleen knew better then to push the matter and instead allowed her self to be guided through the remaining parts of the facility, even momentarily forgetting about her sudden interest in the asylums most famous inmate when she was introduced to the other doctors on staff. Dr. Bartholomew, Arkham's longest lasting and probably most respected psychiatrist. Dr. Anderson, a relatively young and idealistic therapist. Dr. Silva, a middle aged woman who brought with her years of experience from other institutions. And Dr. Arkham himself. Harleen and Joan were the only other women on the staff, and Harleen was by far the youngest and most inexperienced of the lot. Still, her grades and her drive had been enough to get her in, and they all seemed nice, though some of them, she noted, regarded her with clearly skeptical eyes.

By the time she had been shown her office, back again on the top floor, she had already begun to settle in, feeling at ease, pleased with how things had gotten off. It was only in the quiet of the small room, when she had been left to decorate and arrange things as she saw fit, that her mind drifted back to The Joker.

To his _eyes_.

They had been so clear, so cold, and yet, so fiercely intense. Deep and intelligent and still, as though a beacon of calm in a raging storm. Beyond their strange and brilliant coloring, Harleen had been held captive in that gaze by what she was certain was a great worldliness and wisdom, as if those eyes held a knowledge she, nor anyone else, could or would ever possess.

She'd heard much about The Joker, about his criminal exploits, about his constant encounters with another famous Gothamite in Batman. She had even developed a passing interest in him for a few months while she studied for her degree in college, but it had dissolved quickly as she found herself having to focus her attention more and more on course work and tests.

But now she found her interest was peaked again and, on her second week of internship, she slipped down to the filing room she'd been shown her first day, pulling from a large bin a thick, manila envelope, filled with page after page of studies, tests and diagnostics run on Arkham in-patient 0284, a.k.a. "Unknown", a.k.a. "The Joker".

As she sat at one of the desks near the back of the room and flipped the folder open, she felt a surge of excitement well up inside, her curiosity suddenly a pressing urge. The way Joan had spoken, it was as though they knew next to nothing about their star patient, but Harleen knew that to be impossible. He had, after all, been in and out of the place for nearly a ten years span at that point.

So as she turned to the copies of carefully printed out information, she found her eyes greedily moving along the words, trying to soak up as much as she could, as quickly as she could.

The first page was a simple check list compiling all of his physical attributes and conditions. His height, six feet, five inches, taller then Dr. Quinzel had known. His weight, one hundred and ninety-one pounds, suggesting a very slight build. His age, listed as unknown, which caught the young psychiatrists attention as something unusual, but estimated to be somewhere between his early to mid 30s. Whether he had any known health problems or family history of. There were none. Any allergies to certain medicines, antibiotics, vaccines, etc… Again, there were none, and a further note of interest was that he had shown extreme physical resistance to most of the medications they had attempted to administer him over the years. It specified that they had regularly needed to supply him with heavier and often times more frequent dosages of anti-psychotics and sedatives in order for it to have any affect at all, and even then, it was stated, the drugs had little to no impact, failing to alter his moods or behavior in any significant manner, if in any manner whatsoever.

Harleen leaned back in her seat, bringing the folder on to her knees before continuing, her fascination growing by the second.

Again she turned the page, coming upon an array of mental evaluation tests, and found she was nearly overwhelmed by the varying and numerous disorders he was said to have suffered from. Everything from anti-social behavioral patterns to extreme primary and secondary psychosis. From OCD to bipolar and multiple personality disorder. It looked as though they had labeled him with every mental illness known to man, and yet, they hadn't been able to verify or confirm any single one, hadn't been able to clearly identify him as suffering definitively or even mainly from anything specific. It appeared to Dr. Quinzel, as she read over the tests, that they really _did_ know next to nothing about him, as though they couldn't even begin to comprehend his mind or how it worked. He had been put through every sort of brain scan and survey. From Rorschach to word association. And there Harleen was met with yet further intriguing results. The Joker's intellect had been measured through an array of differing intelligence quotient exams, and on each one he had scored from between 192 and 200, and no lower then those numbers on any. He was _extremely_ intelligent, to put it mildly. He had even been given a Rubik's cube at one point, which, she saw, he was able to solve in just under ten seconds. She further noted that they had ceased giving him any sort of puzzle he could hold in his hands after he had beaten his examiner to a bloody pulp with the thing. She began inadvertently to tap the top part of her metal pen against her front teeth, consumed by what she was reading. Further still, as she continued to flip through each page, he was described as possessing an incredibly intuitive and brilliant grasp of both chemical and bio-genetic sciences. Many instances of his skill having been displayed in these areas, both in and out of the asylum, were relayed in the pages. She felt a jolt as she read over one occurrence in which he had somehow concocted a lethal toxin in the form of a spray, using some cleaning materials he had come upon in a janitorial closest. Windex had been one of the components. The resulting casualties were numbered at 6.

"Some light reading, huh?"

She was interrupted suddenly by another voice in the room and snapped her head up to find Dr. Leland standing before her, her hand placed on her hip, a look of both amusement and concern on her face.

"Uh, I was just…" Harleen began, trying to recover from her surprise.

Joan glanced down at the folder spread out before the young psychiatrist.

"You know Harleen; I've seen this before, the new doctor wanting to take on this places most challenging case, but…" And she paused, looking deadly serious. "This isn't a game."

Dr. Quinzel felt suddenly defensive, insulted by the insinuation that she didn't fully understand the gravity of her position as a therapist to the mentally ill.

"I know that." She said, allowing the hurt she felt to show in her voice. "I was just interested, is all."

"Flip to the back of the folder." Dr. Leland nodded towards her.

"Hmm?"

"Look at the last page." Joan instructed once more.

Harleen hesitated only momentarily before doing as she was told, and there she found a list of over a dozen doctor's final prognosis' on patient 0284. They all said the same thing.

"Untreatable".

She looked up at the older woman.

"As much as I hate to say this Harleen…" Joan began. "The Joker is as close as I've ever come to thinking there could be a hopeless case of mental illness. There's just been no progress made with him, not since day one. Every other patient we've treated, _every one_, even the extreme cases, have shown some kind of improvement, even if it's only been miniscule, but The Joker…" And she shook her head in dismay. "We just haven't been able to get through to him, not ever."

Dr. Quinzel leaned back, a thoughtful expression upon her face. She hadn't told anyone, and she never would for obvious reasons, but she had requested to intern at Arkham for a very specific purpose. The asylums patients were among the most well documented cases in the United States. Some of them were _the _most well documented, like The Joker. And being the ambitious and driven young woman that she was, Harleen had, somewhere half-way through her final year of grad. School, decided that if she could land herself a job as psychiatrist to just _one_ of Arkham's more infamous residents, she would be set for life, able to write a tell-all book and gain the notoriety and respect she had always craved.

"Is The Joker currently seeing anyone?" She asked suddenly, confidently.

Dr. Leland eyed her suspiciously.

"Is he currently receiving therapy treatment I mean." Harleen further explained her question.

Joan took a moment to say anything. "Harleen, if you're suggesting that you take over as his doctor then…"

"I'm just curious." She cut her mentor off. "Is he seeing anyone right now?"

Dr. Leland shook her head.

"He hasn't received therapy treatments for a few months now." She admitted.

"But isn't that against state policy?" Dr. Quinzel was quick to point out. "Aren't all patients at Arkham required to receive at least once weekly therapy sessions?"

Joan hesitated before answering.

"Yes, that's true Harleen, but…" And she momentarily stopped. "His last assigned psychiatrist quit after only two weeks, two sessions, and none of our current staff wants to take him on. Of course, eventually, we're going to have to assign him to one of our doctors, and we will, but…"

Harleen was smart, and she knew she had Dr. Leland where she wanted her now.

"They might feel resentment towards the higher ups if they're forced to take on a patient they don't really want to treat, right?" She finished the older woman's sentence for her.

Joan sighed.

"Harleen, the answer is _no_!" She said sternly. "You can't be the one to treat The Joker. He's _far_ beyond your experience level. It's just not even remotely plausible that you be the one to administer therapy to him. And besides, you've already been assigned a nice roster of patients. What about Pamela Isley? I know you're an ambitious girl Harleen, but isn't she challenge enough for you?"

Dr. Quinzel thought back to the two sessions she'd so far had with Pamela. And though she found her a moderately interesting case, and had even come in to the initial meeting with the hope that the botany-obsessive might be the one to base her book on, she had begun to realize half-way through the hour that she simply wasn't enigmatic enough a personality, and wouldn't inspire the kind of curiosity that would push print. No, she needed a big wig, one of the dangerous ones, as the asylum staff put it. And there was none more dangerous then The Joker.

"Well why not Joan?" Harleen decided to simply drop the pretence and pitch her bid right then and there. "If no one else is willing, why force them when you've got someone who is?"

"Because it's _dangerous_ Harleen." Dr. Leland immediately countered. "Do you know what's happened to most of the doctors unfortunate enough to have been put on The Joker's case?!"

The younger woman didn't respond.

"Beyond the ones who've been _murdered_ Harleen, and there's been more then a few, half of them have been driven to seek therapy themselves. Some have even ended up _in_ mental hospitals! That's no exaggeration, you can look them up! And the other half? They either quit practicing psychiatry altogether, deciding there was no purpose behind it, or turned to religion. They couldn't reconcile an untreatable case with their line of work. Very few have continued on in any functional capacity. Bottom line is, nobody who's treated The Joker has come out of it unscathed, and I cannot condone sending someone as inexperienced and young as you in to treat that… that _monster_!" She finished, nearly out of breath from the exertion she put in trying to prove her point. "And anyway…" She began again, "It's not my decision. If you want to be assigned a specific case, you have to go through Jeremiah. But I _will not_ give you my endorsement Harleen."

Dr. Quinzel decided right then that she just _had_ to nab The Joker as her patient. He was her ticket to stardom and wealth, she _knew_ it, and she was going to do whatever it took to land him.

"I understand Joan." She at last answered, politely. "But I don't believe it's conducive to patient recovery if they're assigned a doctor who isn't willingly administering treatment. And I don't believe in any case being hopeless. I'm going to petition to Dr. Arkham himself, with or without your consent. I understand you're only concerned for my well being, but I did graduate top of my class, and I think I'm intelligent enough to handle any challenge. And with you there to help guide me, I think I'll be just fine."

She added that last bit on, trying to play to Dr. Leland's ego a bit.

Joan shook her head.

"I wish you wouldn't do this Harleen. I'm only trying to look out for you. You don't understand what The Joker is, you may think you do, but you don't. Nobody does!"

"Then what difference does it make if I treat him or if anyone else does?" Dr. Quinzel questioned.

"I just want you to be alright Harleen." Was the only response Joan could supply. "I'm afraid is all." She finally relented, seeing the dead-set determination in the young doctor's eyes, knowing now she had no chance to dissuade her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2:  
**

And so it past, after almost three months of campaigning and pleading her case to Dr. Arkham, Harleen had gotten what she wanted, despite continuing protests from Dr. Leland. She'd done so mainly by playing on the negativity of assigning one of their many psychiatrists to a case they didn't particularly want, and then presenting the idea that in order for someone like The Joker to actually get better, he had to have someone working with him who truly wanted to see that happen for him. And she'd done such a good job of acting like she was that person. Jeremiah had initially, of course, been opposed to the notion, citing the same concerns as Joan. Dr. Quinzel was just too young and too inexperienced. The Joker would eat her alive. But after nearly twelve weeks of asking what else they were going to do, and proving her worth through the competent treatment of her other patients, he relented, allowing her the opportunity.

"I promise you won't regret this Dr. Arkham." She thanked him profusely.

"Yes, yes. That's fine." He'd waved her off. "But I want you to report back to Dr. Leland after every session. Report back on your progress, if you make any, and talk over any concerns you might have with her. Is that understood?"

Harleen didn't hesitate to agree. She liked Dr. Leland besides. The woman had been nothing but kind to her, and had made clear the reason why she didn't want the young psychiatrist treating The Joker wasn't because she thought her unqualified, but simply because she didn't want to see any ill befall the girl.

"Further more, if you feel at any point that you are unable to handle the assignment, I want you to tell me or Joan, and we will immediately remove you, alright?"

Again Harleen agreed.

And so there she was, a week and a half later, sitting silently in a room reserved especially for high risk patients. It was a small space, about half the size of the room used for her other sessions, and completely devoid of any decoration, save for a high up over head lamp, which cast a weak and muted light, just barely enough to illuminate the area. Across from her, about fifteen feet back, sat a specialized coach, one which bore steel hoops along it's sides and ends, obviously designed to loop cuffs or chains through, or whatever other kinds of restraints were used here. As Harleen waited, she felt suddenly nervous, afraid even, she had to admit.

In the weeks she had fought for this position, she had researched The Joker as much as possible, reading up on every report and case study she could find, even reviewing the literally dozens of books about him already on the market. None of them, however, would come close in appeal to a first hand account of the manic, as told by his own, personal psychiatrist. Of that, Dr. Quinzel was certain.

And then the time came, the clock ticked over to 1 PM, and the door to the room quietly opened. She saw first a thickly built man, tall and muscular with short cropped hair and a neatly pressed security uniform. He held a look of unease as he entered, even unpleasantness, one hand dragging behind him.

And then she saw _him_, heavily restrained, thick shackles and cuffs binding his hands and feet, a long chain connecting the two pairs of manacles together, making severely limited any movement on his part, so that he could only take small, stinted steps if he wanted to keep his balance.

Harleen again felt her breath catch, like it had the first time she saw him. His appearance was shocking, to put it mildly. He was even taller then she had envisioned. Despite knowing his actual height on paper, seeing him there, only a few feet away, drove home to her just how tall 6'5" actually was. He towered above even the two guards who now guided him towards the coach, and his limbs appeared to stretch on without limit, his arms dangling past his hips, his legs endlessly long; accompanied by massive hands and feet. His hands in particular looked large, with long, slender fingers which brought to Harleen's mind images of a spider's legs. She figured, as she gazed upon him, that his height seemed enhanced by the fact of his all too slight frame. He was _skinny_. Adding to the affect even further was the contrast between him and the two guards. They looked to be 5'11" or 6' even, but their frames were far wider and stout then his own, their arms and torsos incredibly thick by comparison, and they seemed to move his body about with ease, like a rag doll, like he was weightless in their hands. By their side, The Joker was rail thin, and Dr. Quinzel found herself wondering how such a svelte man could be considered so dangerous.

And then there was his skin. Harleen could scarcely believe its color, or rather, _lack_ thereof. It was paper white. Not off-white or fair, but actually pure, dead white. And this coloration ran even over his entire body, as far as she could tell. Not one point of deviation throughout.

He had a shock of thick, green hair, much darker then his eyes, almost black if caught in the right light, and it pooled behind his ears and over his forehead, disheveled and moderately long. His nails too were the same, dark green, cut short behind the ends of his fingers.

His lips were long, stretching across his face, and colored a deep red. Darker then she had imagined. And she noticed how a strange smile played about them. Strange in that, while the expression was a subdued one, it appeared as though he were on the verge of hysterics. As though, at any moment, he could break out in to fits of laughter. His nose was long and straight and perfectly proportioned from bottom to top. Not too thin and not too wide, his nostrils flaring out just enough to accomplish a Roman standard. His cheekbones were high and pronounced, and his chin was also long, though not distortedly so, coming to a somewhat fine point maybe an inch and a quarter from his lower lip, accompanied by an extremely strong and distinct jaw line. His brow ridge was surprisingly subtle, transitioning smoothly in to his forehead, and the brows themselves seemed finely trimmed. His ears, she noted, were sized medium, with small lobs and large, round tops, and laid flat against the sides of his head, a few strands of hair falling mostly behind and around them. Her gaze lingered about the different features of his face before looking back to his eyes, which sat somewhat sunken in to the sockets, the skin around them appearing darker then on the rest of his body, and she was transfixed as before by their intense and vibrant color, reminded of how they were clear and clean and bright, of how they looked somehow pure. Again, there was that same focus. He seemed never to blink. And that bizarre, intimidating intelligence, the one that made her feel like he knew something no one else did.

After a short time, she had to look away, overcome with the weight of his gaze, and she allowed herself, with some hesitation, to admit she found him somewhat good looking.

What he wore also caught her attention. Like her other patients, he was dressed in a simple, short sleeved, grey singlet and similarly loose fitting slacks with an elastic waste band. But what he wore on his feet differed. Where the other inmates she had seen wore rubber bottomed sneakers, with canvas tops and laces, The Joker wore slippers, which looked to be devoid of any rigidness, even in the soles. They were floppy and soft and barely stayed on his feet. Dr. Quinzel wondered why the sudden deviation from routine in that particular area.

She observed, as well, how the two guards, their nametags read Richard and John, handled The Joker roughly, pulling him in such a way as to make him lose his balance. Because of his cuffed feet, he couldn't properly keep pace with them, and was held up only by the support of their hands, gripping tightly about his thin arms. Harleen watched as they pushed him down on to the couch, one of them laying their palms against his shoulders, forcing him on to his back and holding him there, while the other produced another set of restraints and further chained his already shackled hands to the two hoops on either side of his torso. The same was done to his feet, looping the fetters through the metal rings at the end. The links were short, making limited any movement on his part.

The two men seemed nervous as they worked, a noticeable film of sweat having formed across the both of their foreheads, a slight twitching in their fingers and shoulders. Dr. Quinzel was fascinated by the display. The Joker appeared utterly composed. He wasn't at all resisting or giving any hint of physical threat. The guards man-handle his slight frame, flinging him about here and there, pushing him down, pulling him this way and that, and all without protest of any kind. What was more, they were roughly twice his size, at least, in terms of muscularity and thickness, and the young psychiatrist naturally associated those attributes with the two men also being stronger. And yet, they seemed deathly afraid, incredibly uncomfortable with having to handle The Joker at all, as though it were _they_ who were compromised. Harleen wanted to find out _why _this was.

Once they had The Joker properly restrained, practically laid flat against the already bolted down couch, the slightly taller of the two guards came towards her.

"Dr. Quinzel?" He reached his hand out, and she stood, taking it politely. "I'm Richard Jenkins. And that's…" he turned to point to his counterpart. "John Ishum. We'll be in charge of brining the patient in and out for every appointment, applying his restraints, things like that." He began to explain.

She nodded and listened.

"The panic buttons already been explained, correct?" He asked.

"Yes. They've told me if anything occurs which I find unsettling, that I should just press the button, and you two will come and assist me with whatever I need."

Richard nodded. "That's right maim. We'll be stationed right outside this door." He pointed to the metal entryway on the other side of the room. "And if you should feel you need us for _any_ reason, any reason at all, you just push that button there, and we'll be right in."

Dr. Quinzel glanced down at the small remote she held in her hands, decorated only by an unremarkable, black button centered across its middle.

"Otherwise," the guard began again, "We'll be here to collect the patient at 2 o'clock, at the end of every session. We'll be here on the dot."

"Understood." Harleen nodded, smiling sweetly but professionally at the man.

"One last thing before we go doctor…" He started once more. "It is advised that you stay at least fifteen feet back from the patient at all times. Any closer is considered an unnecessary risk. Just let us do all the handling and everything should be fine."

Harleen's eyebrows shot up unintentionally, furthered intrigued by the danger everyone seemed to regard The Joker as presenting.

"Absolutely." She said, confidence sounding distinctly in her tone.

Yet she found herself starring with uncertainty at the door after they had exited through it, and it had closed hard and cold behind them.

It took her a long moment before she was able to bring her eyes back to her newly appointed patient, and was again unnerved when she saw him starring at her, his face blank, free of any discernable expression. She fidgeted and, uncomfortably, cleared her throat before sitting back in the large, leather chair provided her.

"Good afternoon Mr. Joker…" She paused, putting forth considerable effort in keeping her voice steady. "My name is Dr. Harleen Quinzel. I've been assigned as your psychiatrist and will, from this point forth, be held responsible in administering you with once weekly therapy treatments… every Friday at 1 o'clock."

She kept her gaze trained on the small notepad which sat in her lap, absentmindedly tapping her ever present metal pen against the paper. When she heard no response to her introduction, she at last glanced upwards, and still, his eyes were upon her.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3:**

That initial session, and the three which followed afterwards, Dr. Harleen Quinzel felt quite sure were the most frustrating experiences of her life. The Joker had laid there in utter silence, not speaking a word over the entire duration of the hour, not a single utterance of any kind and yet, he never diverted his gaze, never looked away from her. It was, at once, both incredibly aggravating and incredibly unsettling.

At first she tried speaking to him in great quantity, asking questions she hoped might inspire him to converse with her. She thought that he was perhaps bored, that maybe he had heard these same questions asked a hundred times over. And so, she attempted to become creative, tried to follow a line of mentally stimulating and unusual lead-ins. But nothing seemed to work. By the third such session, Harleen felt at her wits end. If she couldn't even get him to talk, then there was no hope of keeping him as her patient. Joan explained that The Joker had similarly treated his last, several doctors, and that most of them had quit within the first two sessions, purely out of frustration. Dr. Leland ventured that The Joker had grown restless and bored at toying with yet another psychiatrists mind, and that the silence was his way of dealing with that disinterest. The older woman's explanation, however, only served to frustrate and depress Harleen further. She needed The Joker to open up if she were going to successfully achieve her goals, and so far, it was looking like she was on the road to anonymity, along with every other schlub doctor who had rolled through there.

But while Dr. Quinzel stewed in her own disappointment over what she perceived to be a complete failure, The Joker found his time with her was proving extremely fruitful.

She was decidedly unaware of him studying her, of that he was certain. She felt the reasoning behind his silence was to force her, early on, in to quitting as his therapist. But The Joker had far grander schemes in store for Dr. Quinzel. He found her such an amusement, her air of pretension, and he knew he had to break her, break her in a way he hadn't yet broken anyone. She was special. So full of confidence and feelings of self-importance, so determined to succeed, to move away from the pack and distinguish herself from the rest. But he knew it was merely a mirage, that secretly, beneath it all, she was a frightened and repressed child, totally deplete of self-assuredness, feeling the unbearable weight of needing to prove herself as someone of actual value. He listened and watched, assessing nearly half a dozen truths about who she was from her presentation alone. The way she spoke in even and measured tones, the way she put so much effort in to masking that thick, east cost accent of hers. How she nervously tapped her pen against her note pad when feeling flustered, or how her breathing grew heavier when she felt unsure, her chest rising and falling just the slightest bit more rapidly and with greater pronunciation. The way she wore her blonde hair, so professionally done up in that silly bun, and those absurdly oversized, black rimmed glasses perched upon her nose, not because her blue eyes needed correcting, but out of a desire to look sophisticated. He could tell so from the way she would tip the things forward, far enough for her to see over the top when she looked down to read. And that ridiculous uniform she wore, with its grey sports jacket, tight, white blouse and short, black skirt, coming to an end just above her knees. The thickly healed stilettos on her feet, black, scuffed velvet, and the fake leather briefcase she held under her arm and sat next to her side. She wanted so badly to be accepted, to be lauded; to be regarded as a sterling example of what was considered societal success. He could see it all. She had given herself away to him so quickly. And he wanted very much to make her in to something so totally opposite of what she hoped to be. To make her in to a person scorned and feared by the very system she strived to flourish in; to turn her in to a reject and a deviant. The moment he had laid eyes on her, through the bars of his cell door, that first day nearly four months previous, he had seen the curiosity rise up in her, and he knew then she would campaign for his assignment, and he had decided at once she would be his. That he would make her his slave, utterly devoted and loyal, so that he and he alone would become the center of her universe. Indeed, he had realized, he wanted to make her love him. And he would. He knew he would.

Harleen felt her brow furrow, and she pressed the tip of her pen hard in to the paper of her notepad, swirling aimless lines about the page. It was now 35 minutes in to her fourth session with The Joker, and as in the previous three, he had said nothing, hadn't so much as acknowledged her presence, save for his ceaseless staring. She was beginning to believe he would never speak to her, and that she would have no choice but to step down as his psychiatrist. She sighed, breathing out despondently at the thought.

"Harlequin."

Her head snapped up, jarred from its heavy state. She saw The Joker, looking at her.

"E-excuse me?" She stammered, struggling to regain herself.

"Your name, Dr. Quinzel." The Joker again spoke. "If you would remove just five letters from your name, it would become Harlequin. Like the 16th century clown servants of Commedia dell'arte."****

She was shocked, at first by the sound of another voice in the room, and then by the quality of the voice itself. He spoke in just above a whisper, the softness of his timbre the kind that might lull its listener to sleep, and every word spoken was articulate and pronounced; treated and delivered with delicate care. Not at all what she had imagined him to sound like.

She stared for a good moment, steadying her breath.

"I've heard that before." She finally managed, praying she sounded more confident then suddenly she felt.

"Perhaps it is a sign." He answered.

She shrugged, attempting to appear blaze about the whole thing.

"A simple coincidence is all."

The Joker shook his head just slightly. "No. I don't believe so."

She waited, anticipating he might come back with some further explanation, but he had gone silent again.

"May I ask why it is you've _now_ chosen to speak?"

The Joker shrugged.

"The moment was apropos."

"… And how did you come to that conclusion?" She ventured further, hoping to keep the momentum.

"Because I felt it." He said quickly.

She went quiet then, debating with her self what her next step should be.

"You know, Dr. Quinzel, you're quite pretty." He suddenly interrupted her thoughts and she felt a wave of surprise and embarrassment wash over her. That wasn't something she had anticipated he would say.

She struggled to regain herself, fidgeting and looking away. She wasn't sure of how to respond. She wanted strictly to remain professional, and felt that accepting such a compliment would be somehow unethical. Yet in the same instant, she feared that failing to acknowledge it could anger him, and he would again refuse to speak. She couldn't afford for that to happen.

"Thank you." She at last managed, her voice coming out in a shaky breath.

"Don't sound so unsure of it Doctor. It's true! I never say such things unless they're well deserved."

Dr. Quinzel had been warned of The Joker's unfailing charm. She rationalized internally that he was merely attempting to manipulate her, but she couldn't help it as a small smile crept up on her lips. She quickly rid herself of it and looked at him somberly.

"Mr. Joker, I would like to keep the focus on you." She insisted.

"As you wish." He didn't protest. "But please, just Joker will suffice."

"Alright then. Joker." She accepted. "Do you have a real name? I've noticed in your case file that you're listed as "unknown"."

He grinned at her, and she noticed how straight and large his teeth were, and how their whiteness nearly matched that of his skins.

"Joker _is_ my real name Dr. Quinzel."

He spoke so quietly she felt certain she may fall asleep just listening to the sound of his voice.

"You must have been born with another name?" She argued. "They haven't been able to identify you. There's no public records, no tax documents, no forms or papers matching to your fingerprints or linking you to any previous person or life. The only records they _do_ have are the ones which have been collected since you first came here. Do you know why that is? Did you… Did you purposefully live your life in anonymity so that one day you could _become_ The Joker?"

He stared at her intently for a long moment without expression, before a wide smile spread across his face, coming up nearly half way along his cheeks.

"My previous life is unimportant. I am The Joker, and that is how you should regard me."

His words may have indicated impatience and demand, but his tone was nothing but pleasant, cheery even. He didn't sound angry. Dr. Quinzel felt relieved.

"Well, I'll certainly address you by whichever title is available, though the doctors on staff are encouraged never to refer to their patients as anything other then their legally given names as it…"

"Reinforces their delusional tendencies and their dependence on psychosis induced alter-egos by validating said alter-ego's existence" The Joker cut her off. He spoke smoothly and with confidence.

Harleen's jaw hung ajar, taken aback by him supplying her with her own answer, sounding like one of her former University professors.

He laughed lightly. "Text-book talk my dear. I know you're smarter then that. As I said, I am The Joker and no other name need be given. I will converse with you on the basis that I am shown a modicum of respect. You willingly and obligingly referring to me by whatever name I ask of you, and by no other, would not go unappreciated."

Harleen was struggling to not show her surprise. The man sitting before her was speaking in a genteel and civilized manner. She felt as though she were engaged in a pleasant and cordial conversation, taking place at some dinner party, thrown by Gotham's social elite, not conducting a therapy session with an unpredictable, uncontrollable mass murderer whose shackled body served only to remind her of this fact.

"Alright then." She said. "Joker it is."

He smiled. He smiled a lot, she noted.

"So," She began again, "you haven't been receiving therapy treatments for several months."

"Oh, I know!" He spoke with an energetic flair. "I feel so neglected! So unwanted!" And he then covered his face for dramatic effect.

"Do you know why that is?" She asked.

He put his hands up as though clueless.

"Budget restrictions?"

Dr. Quinzel nearly laughed, but somehow suppressed the urge. The last thing she wanted was to compromise her professionalism, which she felt certain laughing at his jokes would accomplish.

"The last psychiatrist you had before me was nearly eight months ago." She said. "He and the three before that all quit because you refused to speak to them."

The Joker nodded, a thoughtful expression coming across his face.

"They weren't very interesting." He said.

"But I am?" Dr. Quinzel ventured.

"Oh, but of course!" The Joker exclaimed. "_Perfectly_ interesting."

"How so?" She wanted to know.

"Well, just look at you!" He said, his lips turning upward in to a sly smile. "You're so attractive, I can't help but take notice; and, of course, your persistence. The last two quit after only two sessions, but you my dear, you stayed the course, here for three and a half! And who knows!? Maybe you would have kept coming back, even if I hadn't said a word. It seems to me you posses the sort of compassion necessary for really helping the socially inept and renounced." His grin widened and he stared at her with big eyes.

She looked away. The truth was, she had been on the verge of throwing in the towel, just before he had spoken. She was contemplating in her mind whether she should just stand up, end the session early and tell Dr. Leland she had been right. The only reason she hadn't done so earlier wasn't because she actually _cared_, but because she felt determined to get what she came for. She felt, coming in to Arkham, that almost every patient there was as hopeless a head case as they came, and there was no real sense in trying to help any of them. But, she figured too, she may as well cash in while she had the chance.

The Joker could see, from how tensely she held herself, by the small furrow of her brow and the way the lines about her mouth had shifted, that she had been intensely agitated and on the brink of ending the whole thing. And he had waited for just that moment to say anything. He knew the timing was important, in planting a sense of hope and in stroking her ego, making her feel special because, unlike his last four doctors, he had actually chosen to _speak_ with her.

"You do care, don't you doctor?" He asked, injecting a kind of hopeful plea in to his voice.

"Of course I do!" She answered hastily, snappishly, sounding insulted. "It's the only reason I would be here."

"_Liar_."

He could tell from the response that she was deceitful, and from the emphasis she put in to it that she was feeling a sense of guilt. He knew then her motives for being there were selfish, and he wanted all the more to destroy her. He fought to keep from smiling.

"_Pathetic, ugly thing_."

"That's good." He said, sounding dejected. "I get the feeling from a lot of the doctors who've treated me that they don't really care at all." He almost mumbled the last bit, like a child sulking, before looking at her with narrowed eyes, a contemplative expression on his face.

"But you're not that kind of person Harlequin, I can tell."

Just then the door to the room opened, and Richard and John entered. Harleen watched as they unshackle The Joker and pulled him to his feet.

"It was good talking with you Dr. Quinzel." The Joker winked at her as they were turning him away, towards the door, and she stood in silence as they pushed him through.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4:  
**

"He's talking." Harleen sat down across from Dr. Leland, holding a coffee mug in her hand.

"Really?" The older woman sounded surprised.

Harleen nodded. "Out of nowhere, he just started."

"Well that's good news Harleen. It was looking for a while like you were being given the same treatment his last four doctors got. I wonder what brought it on?"

"Well… he said I was interesting." Dr. Quinzel admitted, careful not to mention how he had twice complimented her looks.

"Oh?" Joan sounded concerned. "Well, you've been briefed on his tactics Harleen."

She nodded.

"I know Joan. Don't be so worried. I'm careful not to tell him anything about myself."

"But you have to understand Harleen, he picks up on things you may not even be aware of having revealed. Just watch it out there, watch what you say, watch how you respond. Remember, he may seem charming, but he's incredibly dangerous."

"I understand Joan. I've got it under control. I wish you wouldn't work yourself in to such a tizzy."

And Dr. Quinzel _did_ feel in control. The Joker had surprised her with a few things, sure, but largely, she thought she had successfully kept the focus on him, and garnered some interesting tid-bits for her book. At least he was talking. Now all she needed to do was keep him at it, and hopefully get him to spill some unheard of secretes in the process.

Though her thoughts in this area brought back to mind what The Joker had said about her caring, and she felt strangely at odds with her original plan. He had sounded so sincere, and despite all the literature she'd studied in preparation for this, she hadn't expected him to be quite _so_ charming as he was. If she didn't know him to be a liar and a killer, she told herself, she almost would have felt bad for him. _Almost_. But she didn't, and she wouldn't allow herself to become deterred. The book was her goal, she was the one in command, and that was how it was going to stay.

The Joker was smiling broadly, looking her straight in the eye. She shifted uncomfortably. She'd never been one to have much trouble holding a person's gaze, but his was so intense and unwavering, so confident, that she found it difficult and off-putting.

"So, Joker…" She began, trying to ease the tension she felt.

The Joker wasn't feeling any at all.

"I heard recently you've been denied privileges for the last 6 months or so." She starred at him briefly to watch for a response. There wasn't any. "Do you know why that is?"

He cocked an eyebrow before giving her innocent eyes and waving a hand dismissively.

"Oh, the higher ups don't like me so much, I suspect. And the same applies to the lowlier of Arkham's employ."

"…How exactly do you mean?" Harleen was intrigued.

"You know sweetie-pie; they don't like my jokes, so they make me pay in varying ways." He snickered. "Taking away bond time with the other crazies is one of their more… _subdued_ methods."

Dr. Quinzel wanted to ask what sort of methods he was referring to, but decided it best to keep the focus on him, for now.

"Does it bother you that you haven't had physical contact with anyone other then the guards for half a year now?"

The Joker shook his head.

"Should it?" He questioned.

"Well, I would think it gets pretty lonely being confined to your cell 24 hours a day, save for our once weekly hour together."

The Joker wanted to laugh loudly, but instead just smiled.

"Don't forget medication administration and shock therapy on Monday's!"

She starred at him blankly for a moment.

"Well, that hardly counts!" She said.

And he continued smiling.

"I find myself more satisfactory company then the unsavory characters this place has to offer. They're all so hopelessly droll. No sense of humor at all."

She looked down at her notes.

"It says here you were Arkham's resident chess champion, and that you displayed skill in the game comparable to that of a grand master."

The Joker again waved his hand. "Chess is a ridiculous pursuit. A posing contest between the intellectually ill-assured."

"But not even Edward Nigma was able to best you, and he's most known for his mastery of mentally stimulating games and puzzles." Harleen pointed out, as if he should be proud.

"Oh, Eddie wasn't very happy when I beat him!" The Joker replied excitedly, as though reminded of some delightful memory, a grin baring his straight teeth quickly spreading over his face. "No, he wasn't very happy at all."

"It says here you tried to shove your rook down his throat after a brief exchange of words following the game. You very nearly succeeded, but the guards pulled you off in time. What caused that?"

The Joker laughed.

"Old Eddie got his panties in a bunch over me laying it to him. I told him it was just a silly game and he shouldn't get so steamed, but he wasn't hearing it. No, old Eddie sure is a stubborn one, with an ego the size of the Grand Canyon. He said some rather unpleasant things in return, things I don't dare repeat before a lady," He winked at her, and Harleen felt herself blush, cursing herself inside for doing so. "So I taught him a lesson in proper edict. I still don't think he's gotten over it. Poor Eddie. No sense of humor. Never has had one."

Dr. Quinzel knew it was wrong, but she felt an urge to laugh. She rationalized that his actions had been grotesque, but the way he worded the scenario struck her as humorous, and she immediately felt guilty over having found it amusing.

"If you think the other patient's here are so boring and that chess is such a silly game, then why did you play it with them to begin with?" She tried to catch him in a contradiction.

"Well one must pass his time in this place somehow, mustn't he? And I suppose the bargain bin baddies are good for a laugh now and then. They do try so hard, the poor dears."

Harleen looked down at the files sitting in her lap, flipping through some pages. It was a well known fact, she'd learned in her research, that the other inmates at Arkahm were deathly afraid of The Joker. He was completely unpredictable and the slightest thing seemed able to set him off. You never knew if he was simply going to smirk at you or play some harmless prank, or if he was going to drive a piece of glass in to your chest. It seemed there was no rhyme or reason behind his reactions. And most usually he wouldn't _re_act to anything at all, he would just act, and that's why, on the rare occasions he was actually allowed in to the rec. room or cafeteria or library, the other patients avoided him like the plague. The times they'd interacted with him had usually ended in their somehow being injured, either physically or mentally, or both.

She tried a different tact.

"It also says here you're a master magician and that you used to put shows on for the other inmates."

His eyes seemed to light up at the mention.

"Oh yes, I love magic!" He exclaimed enthusiastically.

"But it's also how you most recently lost your privileges." She pointed out.

"Those nimrods simply lack the proper appreciation deserved by a performer of my talents." He said sharply. "Their ignorance is nearly intolerable."

"You threw a playing card at Harvey Dent, which _somehow_ you angled to cause a deep gash across his right cheek, deep enough that it required stitches, and then you proceeded to beat him over the back with a chair!" Harleen sounded indignant. "He was in the medical ward for weeks!"

"He'd fallen asleep during the performance. Such an inexcusable affront." The Joker didn't hesitate to answer.

"You think that's justifiable cause for what you did? You think that's worth giving your privileges up for?"

"Of course." He said, as collected as ever, despite Dr. Quinzel's obvious disgust. "You see Harlequin, the human race enjoys pretending that what sets them _above_ other animals is their civility and moral code, but the only thing which really separates us from anything else is our ability to produce _art_. Our _culture_ darling. It is the one thing we as a species are capable of that no other animal is. And when an artist such as my self is treated so inadvertently and with such disregarded by the uncultured masses, wallowing in the dullness of their aptitude, well, it causes quite the feeling of deflation my dear."

The Joker grinned as he saw the look of astonishment and conflict flash across Dr. Quinzel's eyes. He knew he had gotten her. He didn't care _at all_ about culture, or feel that human beings were in any way superior to anything else, not on the basis of being human alone. Though he did consider himself an artist, and did harbor numerous opinions on what did and did not constitute art, as it were. Yet he knew it all to be, in the end, a fleeting and frivolous endeavor. He didn't really mind if anyone saw value in his mastery over magic. He saw no real value in it himself, other then as a means to an end, a way of attracting others towards him so he could then do with them as he pleased. Harvey falling asleep hadn't even been the real instigator of the attack. The Joker had simply wanted to hurt him, and so he did, and later used the perceived insult as an excuse for acting on his desires, because that was yet another source of amusement for him, seeing how people so required a _reason_ for everything. But The Joker knew also that the futility of life and all its pursuits was precisely what made him the greatest artist of all.

He understood an artist to be a person who mimicked life to the best of their abilities, someone's whose goal was to make others see an element, a _quality_ of life that only he or she could. And since he knew life to be, in its essence, the grandest joke of all, the ultimate gag, he knew then his mimicry of this particular aspect made him the most relevant and the most pure artist in the history of the world. That each time he demonstrated to people why life was nothing more then a cruel sally, it was only in an attempt to make them see it with as much clarity as did he. They never did, but he found that all the more humorous. It was fun, and that was the only thing that really was worth anything. Having fun. And oh, did he know how to have fun. The way they all took themselves so seriously; it tickled him to no end!

He could see his doctor was now perplexed, torn between rectifying what she perceived to be heinous and barbaric behavior with what she was beginning to see as a cultured and educated man. He would have her, he knew it. It was only a matter of time. He could see somewhere deep inside her she agreed with him. She just didn't know it yet. But he would show her she did, in due course. When the time was right, he would explain to her his philosophies, he would show her what is real, and even though she wouldn't understand, she would still agree and gape in wonderment. She would be his greatest champion, and he would laugh at how easily the masquerade of her goals and ambitions had been broken, laugh at how skillfully he had chipped away at the façade to reveal who she really was, and how it so contradicted what she was trying to be. She didn't see that girl in herself yet, but he did, and he would, all too soon, privy her to that other person.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5:**

Thirteen weeks had past since The Joker began speaking to Harleen, thirteen sessions, and she was feeling both frustration and confusion. The frustration came from the fact that he hadn't yet spoken, at any significant length, about himself, about his past or what made him who he was, despite her best efforts to steer him in that direction. He'd instead chosen to pontificate on any number of subjects, from politics to sports; but very little relating directly to him self.

"Have you ever read "The Old Man and The Sea" Dr. Quinzel?" One conversation began.

She shook her head. He'd asked her the same question already, regarding a variety of different books, films and music, and to each one, she'd had to tell him no. She felt less and less sophisticated with each new enquiry.

"Oh, you must! He encouraged. "Earnest Hemmingway was a brilliant man. I think his work so beautifully demonstrated the inconsequentiality of life. How about film? Have you seen any Charlie Chaplin or Buster Keaton? Keaton especially was masterful!"

"N-no, I haven't."

"Danny Kay? Red Skeleton?"

"No."

"Well perhaps musicals then? Fred Astaire? Eleanor Powell?"

"I… I haven't seen many of the older films." She admitted, her face flushing scarlet. And he laughed good-naturedly.

"You're so young dear, of course you wouldn't be wise to these sorts of things. But I assure you, today's Hollywood pales in comparison to what it once was. There was so much merriment then, such care-free abandonment within the medium. Today a film isn't considered worth a damn unless it's dark and brooding. It takes itself all too serious when the original purpose of the motion picture was to relieve its audience of that solemnity. Even the dramas of the day were overplayed so as to be almost delightful. Some people just cannot discern the amusement to be had with life. I suppose lending their recognition to this aspect would cause them to feel the weight of their own insignificance." And he sighed, gazing upward toward the ceiling.

Harleen smiled inadvertently. He was so charming and sweet to her. If he felt annoyance at her being ignorant of these things, he wasn't at all showing it. He glanced at her and she quickly did a deadpan. She hoped he hadn't seen the stupid grin on her face. But while she found these discussions interesting, as one way as they were, she couldn't sell a book full of The Joker's opinions! People wanted to know about _him_, not his personal views on The Gotham Knights basketball team! Yet she couldn't outright force any subject on him either. The last thing she wanted was to make him angry. She felt certain that, in time, once she had gained his trust, he would begin opening up about himself, and then she would have all the material she would ever need. It was just going to take patience.

The confusion she felt stemmed from within herself. As each progressive session had come to an end, Harleen felt herself more and more actually _enjoying_ her conversations with him. That wasn't something she had expected. From what she'd heard coming in, he was a nightmare to the other therapists. She'd read reports of him acting out in rude and obnoxious but ultimately harmless ways, simply annoying some doctors in to quitting. Where other reports detailed his being mean as a skinned knee, calculating and cruel, driving qualified professionals over the edge, in to seeking counseling for themselves and sometimes pushing them further still, in to_ madness_. And yet, he had been nothing but nice to her; disarmingly so. To the point that she, at times, caught herself feeling sorry for him, or at least, almost, until she was reminded of what he had done in the past. Yet as much as she rationalized the absurdity of it, she somehow feared his sweetness would render him a vulnerable target, leave him wide open to opportunists, and she found herself wondering if maybe that's what had happened to him. That maybe he'd once been someone too nice for his own good and, because of it, people had abused and taken advantage of him, to the point that it drove him insane. She wondered if maybe he'd _already_ shown her a level of trust by allowing her to see a long forgotten side of who he was, and at that thought, she felt suddenly very ashamed of her plans. If he really was confiding in her indirectly by showing a caring and kind personality which no one else ever saw, then what she intended on doing would be a catastrophic betrayal and she wasn't certain she could justify that. But then, she would begin to let her mind take over.

"_He's probably just messing with you Harleen_." She'd tell herself, recalling the articles she'd read, recounting the gruesome details of his murders. She was doing what anybody would do, and hell if he didn't deserve it! No, as she had concluded before, she wasn't going to let anything divert her from her task, not even some silly, unfounded nagging at her conscience.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6:**

"I've heard you're fluent in several languages." Dr. Quinzel began the next session. "In fact, it says here you've been observed speaking in as many as _fourteen _different languages. Let me ask you, since you obviously have a great appreciation for things like fine art and philosophy, did you study these languages purposefully to expand your understanding of the cultures they come from?"

"Ah, mon chéri, vous avez un si magnifique naiveté de vous. Il rend des moulures de vous d'autant plus simples. Fast eine Scham. Ich mag eine furchterregende Herausforderung. Mas de fato, as suas 19 línguas falo, e não, não os estudei em absoluto, simplesmente buscou-os de muitas viagens minhas ao redor do mundo. Я, кажется, имеем ловкость для такой вещи. С музыкой также! Я играю на злом фортепьяно. Una o dos veces oyendo algo jugado o dicho, y soy capaz de agarrarlo, retenerlo, y luego usarlo. ולא, לא בגלל שאכפת לי על תרבות או אמנות, אתה שפל טיפשי, אבל מכיוון שהוא מאפשר לי לעשות ליותר אנשים בדיוק מה אני עושה לך, אבל פשוט יותר רחבה יותר מרחב. Kluczem, dr Quinzel do zerwania osoba jest do nich pierwsze czuć jak gdyby oni mogą zaufać Tobie, và một khi bạn đã đạt được sự tin tưởng đó, bạn sau đó làm cho họ cảm thấy như là mặc dù họ có thể liên quan đến bạn, và sau đó thân yêu của tôi, bạn có chúng."

Harleen's jaw hung ajar and she stared in astonishment at The Joker, who grinned back at her with a boyish charm, as though oblivious to the fact that he had just done something extraordinary. She could hardly believe her ears. He must have spoken in 6 or 7 different languages to her just then, languages she couldn't even recognize, and he'd done so without so much as a hint of hesitation or uncertainty.

"_What is with this guy?_" She thought, suddenly both embarrassed that she couldn't follow anything he'd said, afraid she would appear as totally uncultured, and awed by his vast knowledge. "_This guy is a psychopath? This guy is a murderer?_" She could scarcely reconcile that fact with what he had thus far shown her.

Her trance was broken by the light sound of his laughter.

"Excuse me Dr. Quinzel, that was terribly rude. I was saying that indeed, I've studied these languages abroad. The people and places they come from are incredibly rich in history, much more so then this young country of ours."

"You…" She cleared her throat loudly. "You've traveled?"

"Oh, yes! More then people realize. Gotham is such a loner of a city; it's nice to get out once in a blue moon."

"You're interested in the different cultures?" She tried posing the same question again.

"_I already answered that you ignoramus_."

"I'm interested in people." He said.

"You… you are?" She sounded surprised.

"Oh, don't be so amazed! Of course I am! Just because their lives hold no meaning doesn't mean they can't make for fascinating subjects of study." He answered her in a merry tone. "But you know doctor; I've found that, despite the bodies of land and water which separate them, in defiance of their differing religious and cultural beliefs, people everywhere are all basically the same. Oh, they like to think those things define who they are, make them stand out from the rest as unique, but essentially they're _veeery_ similar, very much of the same mind. True difference, Dr. Quinzel, is not looked upon with admiration, but with fear. You understand? The unique thinker, people feel, poses a very real challenge to everything they've ever established, to their concepts of right and wrong, good and bad, just and unjust. Those beliefs being faced with confrontation is, in their minds, a threat to what those beliefs are really about to begin with; that being survival my dear. Those who dare stray from the chosen path, well…" And he laughed. "They end up in places very much like here. Can't have anyone rocking the boat, you see."

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

"_What if he's right?_"

"_Shut up Harleen! He's a __psychopath__, how can you even consider it?!_"

"_But he sounded so logical!_"

"_Well, he's good with words is all! He's insane, his reasoning is insane. He's in here because he __kill's__ people and he sees nothing wrong with it!_"

"_I know, but… he doesn't sound insane._"

Harleen sat with her elbows pressed against her office desk, her head pressed against her palms, her mind swirling with conflict. That was the problem. He didn't _sound_ insane! The way he spoke, the things he knew, how he approached her in such a sophisticated and genteel manner. Coming in to this, she'd imagined he would be a raving lunatic, struggling against his restraints, uncooperative, vulgar and rude, making little if any sense with his endless ramblings. But everything he'd been had been the exact opposite of that, and something inside her, to her increasing discomfort, was seeing the logic in his words.

"Knock, knock."

Her head shot up and she saw Dr. Leland standing in the doorway.

"Hi sweetheart. Can I come in?"

"Uh… yeah, sure. Come on in."

Harleen absentmindedly began to reorganize the things on her desk, trying to appear busied.

Dr. Leland took a seat opposite and starred at the young psychiatrist for a moment.

"You look pretty beat." She noted.

"Yeah, well…" Harleen shrugged. "Long hours I guess."

"Hmm." Joan nodded. "This place does that."

She looked down at the notepad in front of Dr. Quinzel.

"You haven't been taking your work home with you, have you Harleen?"

"Hmm?" She asked, looking up.

"You seem distracted. Is anything wrong?" Joan inquired, seeing something was troubling her.

"… No, no, nothings wrong." Harleen waved her hand. "I'm just a bit tired." She lied.

Joan leaned back in her seat.

"You know, you've been treating The Joker for, what is it, sixteen weeks now? You've lasted longer then his last four doctors combined, and believe me Harleen, most of us here are already _very_ impressed. But maybe it's starting to take its toll? He's known for being incredibly difficult."

Harleen shook her head emphatically. "No. He's been nothing but cordial with me. I'm fine." She tried to reassure. "I just need to get some sleep and I'll be tip top again, I promise."

Dr. Leland sighed. Every chance she got, she tried to dissuade Harleen from continuing in her treatment of The Joker, but her hopes were always somehow dashed.

"So how are things going with the self-proclaimed Clown Prince of Crime anyway? Have you made any more progress or is he still relegating conversations to the day's weather forecast?"

"Things are okay. He hasn't really spoken much about himself, but he has said some things which I feel might give some insight in to how he... thinks." Dr. Quinzel trailed off as she was reminded of her final thought before Joan interrupted.

"Oh? Well that's interesting. Any conclusions you've made from that?"

She hesitated. She couldn't share her thoughts. She knew if she let on that The Joker's ideas seemed, in some bizarre way, to make sense to her, that she didn't find his view points to be _utterly_ illogical, then they would immediately take him from her, and she couldn't have that, not if she was going to make this book a reality. And besides, she needed to sort out her own feelings first. Figure out what they were and why they were bothering her so much. As it currently stood, despite his extreme perspective, The Joker somehow made it seem less so. He'd even been convincing in painting himself as the victim of an intolerant society. She reasoned it was only his skillful use of words that was causing these strange doubts within herself, and felt certain, if she could get him to elaborate on his motives and on what he got out of his crimes to begin with, that she would feel the proper disgust she should, and rest easier confirming his disassociation from reality.

"N-no, not yet. I'm still working on that." She said.

"Well when you do, let me know. I'd like to see what you're thinking."

"I sure will Joan." Harleen smiled fakely as she watched the older woman stand up.

"I've got my appointment with Mr. Nigma in 20 minutes, so I'd better go prepare for that." She announced.

"Good luck." Harleen smiled.

"With Edward?" Dr. Leland laughed. "He's a piece of cake. It's you who I should be wishing luck. Just don't work yourself too hard, okay?"

Harleen nodded, relaxing back in to her seat. As soon as Joan had left, she exhaled sharply.

**End Notes:**

**Chapter End Notes:**

Okay, so if you're wondering what El Joker said to Harleen and what languages he spoke in, here it is. It was eight different languages he spoke in, those being

1. French

2. German

3. Russian

4. Polish

5. Hebrew

6. Portuguese

7. Spanish

8. Vietnamese

And what he said was this:

"Ah, my darling, you have such a wonderful naiveté about you. It makes molding you all the more simple. Almost a shame. I like a formidable challenge. But actually, its 19 languages I speak, and no, I didn't study them at all, simply picked them up from my many travels around the world. I seem to have the knack for that sort of thing. With music too! I play a wicked piano. One or two times hearing something played or spoken, and I am able to grasp it, retain it, and then use it. And no, not because I care about the culture, you silly scamp, but because it allows me to do to more people exactly what I'm doing to you, but simply over a broader expanse. The key, Dr. Quinzel, to breaking a person, is to make them first feel as though they can trust you, and once you've gained that trust, you then make them feel as though they can relate to you, and then my dear, you have them."

Geez, that Mr. J sure is a talented guy!


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7:**

"Hey clown! Up against the wall!" Richard called through the bars. "It's time for you to see the doctor."

The Joker sat up and watched as the door unlatched, a loud, metal creek sounding as it slowly opened, its heavy weight dragging behind it. Richard and John stood on either side.

"I told you, up against the wall!" Richard ordered again, false bravado in his voice, pointing his nightstick to the opposing end of the cell. The Joker could see they were afraid, he could see it in their eyes, and he smirked before standing and placing his hands against the cold concrete. Richard began to frisk him roughly while John stayed by the door.

"Gently, gently. I'm as delicate as a spring flower. You wouldn't want the nurses finding out about our little trysts together, now would you?" The Joker mocked.

"Shut up." The guard barked, running his hands down The Joker's paint legs.

"Don't pretend it isn't true! Why, if they were to discover the passion we have between us, we might never meet again. What cruel injustice it would be! Two lovers, forced apart by an intolerant and unforgiving world! Ooo! That felt nice."

Richard's face blushed with embarrassment. The Joker had been mocking him with similar connotations for the past three days, and the man had finally had his fill.

"_Shut up_!" He ordered again, slamming The Joker against the wall.

He hoped for that to elicit the inmate's silence, but to his horror, The Joker began laughing.

"Oh, you like it rough, do you?" He giggled manically.

"J-just be quiet.." Richard stammered, the order sounding feeble as he cuffed the madman's hands together.

"I can't say I blame you." The Joker ignored him. "I see the way you've been eyeing Dr. Quinzel. Oh, she is a fine little thing, isn't she? But a big, ugly brute like you? You haven't got a snowball's chance in hell with her…" He sighed. "I suppose one must procure his action wherever he is able. And that can be frustrating, make you do things you don't really mean. Still, after that little outburst Richard, I'm afraid my feelings are a bit bruised. I'm not sure I want to continue anymore."

Again Richard's face burned with humiliation.

"I said _shut. up_, you fucking faggot!" He rammed The Joker's head in to the concrete, and The Joker erupted in fits of hysterics.

"Oh, that smarts!" He laughed, a stream of blood running from his hair line down his temple. "I'll have to be sure I repay you in kind for that one."

Richard's blood ran cold at the words and his fingertips went numb. The Joker could feel his grip loosen on his shoulders. He knew it was from fear and he laughed with even greater delight.

"Be quiet Joker! I'm warning you!" John stepped in and ordered, pulling Richard back.

"You're… _warning_ me?" The Joker asked, mock confusion in his voice, starring down at the shorter man. "Should I be concerned? Scared? I hope you're willing to back that up Johnny boy. I'd love to dance with you too!"

John averted his eyes, not answering.

"Richard, just… cuff his feet, okay? Just cuff his feet and we'll take him down."

"Johnny, I'm hurt. You just don't know how much."

The Joker's voice was laced with menace, no longer light and airy as it usually was. If he hadn't concluded to kill the two buffoons before, he surely had now. He'd prodded them on purpose, hoping they'd be foolish enough to confront and beat him. Then he'd have an excuse to give his little Harlequin for why he'd killed them. But they'd only threatened him, and then backed down like the cowards they were. And if anything disgusted The Joker, it was that. How they would parade their self-righteous principles about, as though that action some how proved them better then him. Yet, they lacked the courage to sacrifice in support of those tenets, dropping them the moment they threatened to impede on their well being. _He_ had sacrificed for what he believed. And still they purported to be of stronger character? Of course, he knew their conviction in those standards wasn't what they professed it to be, that indeed they didn't really believe in them at all, and their hypocrisy is what made him sick. The Joker laughed inwardly at their naivety, thinking that somehow would save them, when all it had really served to accomplish was his anger. No, they surely would die now. He would just have to put it off until later, until after he'd completely opened Dr. Quinzel's eyes, when she would no longer need a reason _why_.

_________________________________________________________________

"May I call you Harley?" The Joker started there next session.

"Excuse me, what?" She looked confused.

"May I call you Harley, Dr. Quinzel?" He asked again. "It far more befits you, me thinks."

"Uhh, well…" She stammered.

"Of course, if you're uncomfortable with that, I understand implicitly dear. It's just, well, I've come to feel we have a connection, you and I. A sort of understanding, perhaps?"

"You… do?" She sounded shocked, and he could detect hope in her voice.

Her guilt betrayed her assuredness. He could tell from the sound of her voice and the look on her face that she hadn't expected him to declare his trust in her, because she knew deep down she wanted that trust for selfish reasons, and that made her uncertain in her ability to gain it.

"_Amateur._"

"Harley… may I call you Harley?"

"I… I don't…"

He stared at her with imploring eyes.

"I don't see why not." She finally relented.

"That's fine!" He smiled dashingly. "Harley, it's hard to place your trust in others, am I right?"

"Well, certainly." She began.

"You would know too, wouldn't you?"

"What?!"

"Well, I imagine a successful young girl such as your self has encountered her fair share of resentment?"

"Well…" She shrugged, glancing upward. He knew he was right.

"Doubt, even. People look at you and are unable reconcile your beauty with your intellect. Everything in their minds is so black and white; they cannot justify one qualities existence with the other. But I know better Harley. I can see you are a woman of vast talents."

And she blushed fiercely, covering her mouth to stifle the giggle which crept up in her throat. Why did she suddenly feel like a school girl again?

"Tell me darling, did the boys play the part of your shadow and were the other girls mean?"

She nodded, as if in a trance, The Joker's soft voice lulling her to it. She realized a split second later what she had done and was suddenly mortified, chastising herself within for being so blithely unaware.

"We… we should…" She tried to recover, praying he hadn't seen her acknowledge his observations. But he had.

"I understand." He cut her off. "I've dealt with things similar. You try your best, but still, it goes unrewarded, unacknowledged. Still, you're met with nothing but the disdain and ridicule of others less gifted. And you feel inside like you'll never be good enough."

And Harleen's mind drifted suddenly to her past, to her early and mid teens, when she was an attractive young girl who showed incredible promise in the sport of gymnastics. Boys were always hanging off her arms, one or two others consistently tagging behind. She seemed to have everything; everything but friends, or someone to congratulate her and show pride in her accomplishments. The other girls in school were cruel towards her, seeing and treating her as nothing more then a ditzy blonde. Her sub-par grades didn't exactly help her believe otherwise. Her mother and father had been typical parent's of the 80s. Hippies turned yuppies, who had had a child just to be able to say they did, and Harleen found herself spending more time in day care or under the supervision of a hired nanny then at home with them. It wasn't that they didn't provide for her. They did. Everything she may have wanted. But there was no emotional connection, no show of genuine interest in her or her activities. They would sign her up routinely to extra-curricular activities and various youth clubs, hoping to keep her occupied and out of the house. She'd taken particularly to gymnastics and, from an early age on, had shown great talent in the discipline. She'd kept it up, right through high school, her considerable abilities garnering an athletic scholarship to Gotham University. But Mom and Dad hadn't ever shown up to a single meet, hadn't ever given comment or enquiry in to the numerous first and second place trophies she regularly brought home, save for the occasional 'That's nice dear.'".

The Joker could see from the distant look in her eyes that he'd hit a nerve and he bit his lip to suppress the chuckle in his throat, giddy with the excitement of how pliable his little Harlequin was.

Harleen herself was far away, washed over with memories of her neglect filled childhood and the snobbish, disapproving looks she'd been given throughout her days in and out of school. And then she wondered all too quickly how it was The Joker knew these things about her. Nobody ever had, not her parents, not her many boyfriends, not her teachers or her coach.

She looked up at him, her eyes round with wonder, and he made certain his expression was properly pained. He didn't want her to see the delight he felt, he wanted her to see empathy.

"Nobody's…" and she chocked. "Nobody's ever put it like that. How? How could you know?"

The Joker's face twisted in to a frown, his brow creasing, and he looked very much like he was going to cry.

"_How indeed Harley dear!_" He thought to himself.

He knew because she had told him herself. From how hard she tried to appear presentable, professional, as though she belonged. The way she so easily embarrassed. How she would avert her gaze the moment her opinions were challenged, how she would clench the material of her skirt or fumble with her eye glasses, or pretend to be writing in her notepad. It all added up to reveal the incredible insecurity and longing for acceptance she felt under the polished, intrepid exterior she presented.

"Because I've been through the same Harley. Like I said before, we have a connection, an understanding. We can relate to one another..." He answered before pausing for dramatic effect. "I know how much it hurts."

And damn if he didn't have to bite down on his tongue to keep from laughing as he saw her eyes mist over. This was too much!

She looked down, trying desperately to compose herself, knowing if she spoke, her voice would waver and break. He was _right_! He was _so_ right! But this couldn't be. She couldn't be connecting with the freakin' _Joker_, he couldn't be connecting with _her_! This was all wrong. But she couldn't help it. She couldn't help the way she _felt_!

"Harley?"

She heard him speak her name softly and she finally brought her eyes to him. He was looking at her with so much compassion and she felt certain she would break down right then and there. But she _couldn't_. She couldn't allow that to happen.

"I'm sorry if I upset you." He said gently.

And she shook her head, looking away again.

"N-no, no. I'm fine." She stammered, struggling to steady her voice.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

She bit her lip, and she could feel herself wanting to give in.

"I… I can't." She managed.

She needed just a little push now.

"It wasn't easy." He said suddenly, sounding distant. "I was persistently teased about my appearance."

She looked at him, and he'd turned away from her, his eyes cast downward.

"Tall and skinny doesn't go over well with the jocks… or the girls. You can try, hard as you please, but fitting in was never meant for people like us Harley."

She blinked, a film of tears washing down her face, and she quickly wiped them away.

"I… I never really had any friends… either…" She whispered, her voice trailing off. "No one to talk to. Gymnastics was it for me, in a lot of ways..."

She stopped suddenly.

"I mean, uh, do you… do you care to… to talk about it, about feeling rejected?" She stumbled, and cursed herself inwardly.

"_Damn it Harleen, what are you __doing!__? You're supposed to be the one asking questions!_" And she felt her cheeks burn in embarrassment at how unprofessional she'd allowed herself to become. How had she even let that happen? She wouldn't allow it again. She_ couldn't_.

But it was too late.

She hadn't gone in to much detail, but then, she didn't need to. She'd said enough for him to know everything. And then he made his move.

"You feel a sense of inadequacy, don't you Harley?" He began, and before she could answer, he continued. "Your parent's didn't want you around, too busy with their own careers to pay you any mind, so they pawned you off on after school activities and athletic programs, as a way to keep you out of the house, keep you out of their lives. And you focused Harley, didn't you? Tried harder? So hard you managed to make a name for yourself as a stand out gymnast, brought home awards and accolades, won the praise of your coaches, caught the attention of talent scouts. Am I right Harley?"

The corners of his mouth turned just slightly upward as he watched her nod, her eyes again glistening with tears.

"But it was never enough, was it darling? You never got more out of Mommy and Daddy then a pat on the head and a forced smile. They never showed any _real_ interest, did they? Never showed they cared. It was always, 'that's good sweetheart.' or 'That's nice dear.', before going back to talking amongst them selves, as though they hadn't even heard you, as though they were the only ones who existed."

He had to bite down hard on his lip to keep from giggling as a tiny sob escaped her throat.

"And your peers certainly weren't apt in providing comfort, were they? Oh, you must have been a hit with the boys! A pretty little thing like you?! But all they thought about was sex. And the girls?" _Called you a slut. And you were one too, weren't you?_ They were awfully mean. Gave you dirty looks."

She cast her gaze down, covering her mouth with her hand, clamping her eyes tight as she felt tears sting the back of them. And again, she nodded, not even aware she'd done so.

"It must have been awfully lonely. But you showed them Harley, didn't you? You showed all of them. Got your degree, finished top of your class! And now here you are! Personal psychiatrist to me! To _The_ Joker. It doesn't get more prestigious then that darling. And where are all those imbecilic girls and concrete-headed boys? Trapped in unbearable wed-lock with one another, no doubt, one half bear foot and pregnant , the other half working some dead end nine to five and wearing the latest style in beer belly fashion."

She chocked out a laugh, his humor causing relief to wash over her.

"You really think so?" She managed.

"I know so!" He assured her enthusiastically. "Who needs such talentless half-wits? They're not on your level Harley, not a one of them."

She smiled, elated to hear him say those words. She wasn't even sure why his affirmation was suddenly so important, but it was. He was so _perceptive_. She hadn't even realized until now. It was as if he had known her for her entire life. And, she had to admit, that felt good.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8:**

The Joker fell on to his cot, laughing almost uncontrollably, tears streaming down the sides of his face. He was certain he'd never had this kind of fun with any previous doctor. It wasn't that she was challenging. She wasn't. Her being so young, so inexperienced and naïve made her a gudgeon. No, it was _how_ she responded to everything, with that child-like idealism and faith. It made the prospect of her destruction all the more appealing. He had felt the urge to upchuck as he watched her fight back tears. "_The sniveling ninny_." It was pathetic how sorry she felt for herself, as if she'd had it worse then the whole of human kind. It would take further work still before she could let go of those selfish emotions and devote herself to his happiness. Until that time, however, it was imperative to her progress that she thought he actually _cared_ about her feelings. She already trusted him, on a subconscious level. It wouldn't be long before that trust was implicit, before she would pour her worthless little soul out to him. Her mind was fragile. Too much pressure and it surely would crack. He supposed that, much like her outward exterior, her credentials were somehow a farce. She wasn't unintelligent. But she was a choker. She didn't believe in the value of her own mentality, he could see that, and she thus had difficulty concentrating on anything which might have been intellectually taxing. He was certain that the rigors of earning a degree in psychiatry, not psychology, so few seemed to know the difference, would have been too great an encumbrance for her to handle with any sort of proficiency or ease, as her resumé would suggest she had. Just passing her course work must have been a struggle. So her more then impressive grade point average was, at best, questionable. She had probably slept her way to the top. His little Harlequin was nothing if not resourceful. But then, that too would be a point of susceptibility in her, one which he could target… and he would. He laughed even louder, his amusement having reached a near fever pitch.

"What the _hell_ is so funny this time, you retarded clown!?"

He sat up abruptly at the sound of Harvey Dent's agitated voice. The former distract attorney made no secrete of his hatred for The Joker. To him, being placed in a cell directly opposite the madman's was far worse punishment then actually _being_ in Arkham itself. The incessant laughter alone was enough to drive anyone within the vicinity crazier then they already were.

The Joker jumped from the bed and walked quickly to the door, grasping the bars over the tiny window, peering out at Dent's cell across the way.

"Wouldn't you like to know Harv!" And he laughed again.

"No! I just want to know what you're laughing at so I can tell you it's _not_ funny and that you should shut up!"

"Aww. Tsk, tsk, tsk Harv. Sounds like one of you woke up on the wrong side of the bed today, hmm? I'm afraid, unless you can be nice, I can't share."

"Go to hell!"

The Joker laughed loudly.

"And leave all this behind?! Oh, I simply couldn't!"

"Goddamned freak show." Dent mumbled under his breath, turning away from the door.

"Come again Harv? You really should learn to articulate. I know it can be hard, what with half of your lips burnt away, but…"

"I called you a freak Joker! And that's what you are. You fuckin' make me sick!"

The Joker stopped laughing then, his eyes narrowing.

"Oh Harvey… I'm wounded." He said, sounding genuinely hurt. "Are you sure you mean that?"

"Hell yeah I'm su…"

"Are you _suuuure_ you're sure Harvey?" The Joker cut him off, his voice suddenly low and threatening.

There was no response from Dent's cell for a long moment, and the air hung dead between them.

"No… no, I didn't mean it. I'm… sorry." He finally spoke, his delivery stunted, as though he were on verge of exploding in to a rage.

"I hope so Harv." The Joker replied. "I do so enjoy our little chats together. I would hate for them to meet an abrupt end…"

Dent didn't say anything else after that. And The Joker again resumed in his merriment, laughing madly every few minutes at some private joke only he seemed to understand.

___________________________________________________________________

Harleen sighed dreamily, her elbow rested upon the table, her chin propped on to her fist as her other hand created mindless doodles on paper. Her thoughts kept drifting to her last session with The Joker. To the things he'd said to her, _told _her about herself, things even _she_ hadn't been able to formulate in to words. She was bemused by how he could have known so much. It wasn't as if she had ever told anyone about the unhappiness she felt growing up, about how discontent she was, not only with her parents and her peers, but with herself most of all. Nobody knew those things, not even Ellen or Bette, the two girlfriends she'd managed to make and hold on to past college. Though those relationships were now suffering as she found herself more and more consumed by the work she was doing at the asylum. Somehow, The Joker had been able to see it all, as if he had read her mind. Even more so as if he'd felt the same pain and knew the words to describe it.

But that was _it_! Wasn't it?!

He _had_ told her they had a connection; that they somehow could relate to one another, that they _understood_ one another. It was obvious to Harleen now. The Joker had felt similarly to her growing up, maybe even in to his adulthood, before he became what he was, just like she still, even now, felt insecure and unsure in her abilities. And she suddenly felt a tugging at her heart. What if he _still_ felt that way about himself!? What if the whole Joker image was nothing more then a defense mechanism, put in place to hide the pain of rejection and yearning for acceptance which no doubt saddled him every day? What if all his crimes, all his anti-social behavior and destructive tendencies were nothing more then a cry for help?!

That _had_ to be it! She was sure. After all, he hardly seemed _mad _to her. To the contrary, she'd never met anyone with so much sophistication, so much culture and worldly knowledge as The Joker had. And despite all of the horror stories she'd read about his supposedly deplorable behavior, with her he had been nothing but charming, and polite, and kind to a fault. And Harleen was a smart enough girl to know that one should never pass judgment on anything or anyone until they've had a chance to really learn about it. And she could be impartial, she knew! She felt suddenly angry with herself for having started the sessions with pre-conceived notions of what she was going to find, and for letting those ideas cloud her objectivity for so long. Well, no more! She didn't quite get what all the fuss was about anyway! Why everyone acted so nervous around him, or why people referred to him with such contempt. To her, he seemed more then anything like a little boy, one who was simply never taught how to properly vent his emotions. The crimes he'd committed were wrong, she knew that. But now she was beginning to think that it wasn't out of some sickness of the mind or evil intent that he did them, but because he had never been given an outlet to express him self. Who knows, maybe if she'd never had gymnastics, she would have gone down the same path he had! It wasn't entirely improbable. And with a mind as creative and complex as his, if society just hadn't treated him so badly, if it'd just given him some kind of guidance or help, he would probably have been a famous scientist or an artist of some kind, not locked away in an insane asylum! Harleen was beginning to feel that The Joker had been entirely misjudged, and that maybe it was now up to her to be the first to really, actually help him.

Her mind then wondered to her original plan, to her book. There was just simply _no_ way she could justify going through with it now! She couldn't do that to him, not after he'd put so much trust in her, after having revealed so much about himself to her! She would never be able to live with the guilt of knowing she'd betrayed him like that. He needed help! And she was going to be the one to give it to him. The system had obviously failed him, had probably caused him to become the way he was in the first place! She was the first person he'd really felt a connection with in God knows how long. Maybe ever! Their lives were so similar to one another. And she was certain, because of this, that she was specially qualified to treat him.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9:**

"Why do you kill Joker?" Harleen began their next session. She felt a determination she hadn't before. She had to get to the root of his problem if she was going to make this work.

He gazed at her with momentarily narrowed eyes.

"Because it makes me laugh dear. And I do so love to laugh!" He answered her without hesitation.

"But don't you… don't you feel any anything else? Don't you feel remorse or a sense of loss?"

He looked confused.

"Why would I?"

"Well, because… because it's wrong! Don't you understand the difference between right and wrong?"

She stared at him nervously, and he stared back, saying nothing. And as the seconds of silence seemed to drag on in to minutes, she grew more anxious, afraid that she'd somehow upset him with the question.

"You sound just like Batman." He finally answered, and she felt panic race through her, both from the obvious annoyance in his voice and from the fact that, up until now, he hadn't yet mentioned the Batman. If there were any point of agreeance between the many psychiatrists who had treated The Joker, it was that he was absolutely _obsessed_ with the vigilante. This was a turning point. Either he would open up to her more then ever, or he would shut down and withdraw. She couldn't decide if she should say anything or wait. She wouldn't have to.

"There is none."

She blinked, momentarily forgetting she had asked anything to begin with.

"I'm sorry?"

"Your question." He reminded her. "The difference between right and wrong... There is none."

It took a short while for her to process his answer.

"_Maybe he really __can't__ differentiate between the two. Poor thing, he needs my help so much._"

"So you _don't _understand?" She asked. "You don't see what separates good from bad, or right from wrong…?"

"Did I say that?" He spoke slowly, deliberately, sure to conceal the disgust from his voice. "I am fully cognizant of what definitions have been accorded the words. What I answered to you, Harley, was that there is, in fact, no actual difference between them."

"So you… you _do_ understand?"

He fought the urge to roll his eyes. Did she _have_ to be so inane?

"I am aware of those words significations, of the context in which they are most often used, of the definitions established them. But these words serve only to distinguish between degrees of morality, and morality itself is an abstract, man made concept, not concrete fact. The laws which govern this society, or any other society, are not the laws which govern nature. You see? There is no difference between right and wrong because right and wrong do not exist. I could lend any desired import to these terms, and who could tell me I am wrong? Concepts, darling, concepts are not facts. They are ideas, fantasies; products of the imagination. There is no _absolute_ meaning in any of it, no truth, no purport; no actuality. And this is proven by how often society's notion of morality changes, how often they amend what is considered acceptable and what is considered taboo. In the end, Harley, all morality is, is a set of directives put in place to support self-preservation. And those shift and morph and alter as needed. If the law no longer serves to uphold people's survival, then that law is either modified or eliminated. But people don't actually _care _about these things, about their notions of virtue or honor or benevolence; of _good_ or _evil_. They simply wish not to perish, or to suffer. When religion propagated foreordination, a divine decree predetermining all souls to either heaven or hell, people endeavored to engage in all manner of "morally questionable" acts, at least in relation to what _today_ is considered improper or unethical comportment, because there existed no fear for their immortal essence. If, by this belief, all people are pre-selected by God to eternal salvation or damnation, without consideration of their actions, there then is no occasion for them to act in accordance to _any_ code of supposed proper conduct. Well, Harley, when you have nothing with which to threaten, that is when you lose control. And control is _power _darling. The church soon realized this. If people truly believed, as they did, that to their actions there was no consequence, then when presented with the choice to lie, or steal, or cheat, or _kill_, they would not hesitate to involve themselves in such deeds, especially if said deeds in some way proved beneficial to their overall wellness or prosperity. The entire concept behind society is to rule and direct and contain. And if that ability to command is challenged in any way, by _any thing_, then whatever that thing is, presenting said challenge, it must be done away with. Which is why you see today's prevailing belief to be that your actions do indeed significantly impact your course of destination." He laughed sharply. "Funny how fickle divine law can be, hmmm?" He paused momentarily. "Harley, my dear, there is no such thing as conscience, of inherently knowing right from wrong. Those _feelings _are ingrained in us from the time of our birth, onwards. And people are cowardly creatures. They'll do or say just about anything to save their own skin. Believe me; I have experience in this area." And he laughed again. "So if you beat them over the head long enough with what you say they can and cannot do, they'll start to believe in their sub-conscious mind that what you've said is indisputable fact, the be all and end all of universal principle. And if they believe you able to form their suffering, to cause them harm, emotional, physical or otherwise, and if they believe in your willingness to exert this capacity over them if ever they should confront or disregard what you've told them is and is not acceptable, well, then you have them Harley. Then they are yours to control. And it's _all_ based on fear, darling, all based on a primal, animalistic instinct to survive. Not off of some inner sense of integrity, piousness or an intuitive comprehension of what is virtuous and what is iniquitous. Not on purity of heart or kindliness, but on people's _fear_. Fear for themselves, for their lives, for their freedom, their health, their happiness, and for their souls. The things people would do if they didn't think they'd get caught! But they know they will, they're _afraid_ of what may happen to them, and so they live out their pathetic and meaningless existence in misery, in the death grip of a system which cares only to bridle their lives and exercise determination over who they are, where they go and what they do. And the lemmings that they are, they actually believe all that hoopla they're fed about how freedom isn't free and about having certain, inalienable rights! Keeps them in check." He winked. "Makes them think it's all worth while… Of course, with me, none of all that works. I'm not afraid, you understand."

She stared at him, and he stared back at her.

What he had said was true. The Joker was without fear. Self-preservation had, to him, never been a source of motivation. He just wasn't concerned, one way or the other, with how he ended up or where. In his eyes, he just _was_, as was everything else. And there was no sense in trying to fit it to any purpose, or meaning, or worth. He didn't _care_. How did you stop someone like that? When they showed total disregard for everything that had ever been established as sacred, as having merit or significance, when they placed no value on _anything_? Not on themselves, not on anyone else, not on any set of morals or principles or rules? Not on _life_? It would be impossible then to persuade them, impossible to bribe them, impossible to coax, or blackmail, or inspire them; impossible to _control _them. Harleen finally understood why it was people so feared The Joker. And it was for the _exact_ reasons he had stated. They had no power over him, and he thus posed a danger to their rule and their conservation.

The room went quiet, and she looked more astonished then anything

"Do you… do you actually believe that?" She at last managed after several seconds.

"I know it Harley." He said smoothly, his voice quiet.

She felt confused. Everything he said, he made sound so rational, so sane.

"But Joker…" She started. "Killing is… its _wrong_. Do you understand that?"

He appeared unexpectedly piqued.

"Have you heard _nothing _I said?!" His voice suddenly rose in volume, sitting up from the couch as much as he was able and looking at her with vicious eyes, his irises seeming to blaze an even brighter green then usually they did. She shrunk back, and for the first time, felt actual fear as she watched him, his face contorted in to a frown, his nostrils flaring. Her heart began to palpitate, sweat breaking out over her brow. He looked uncontrollably _mad_. And just as suddenly as the anger had appeared, it then dissipated, and he relaxed back down, smiling sweetly her way.

He reprimanded himself inwardly for allowing his emotions to show, realizing he'd nearly set her progress back weeks.

"I'm sorry Harley-girl." He apologized, his voice again soft. "Forgive me?"

It took a short while more before she felt herself begin to calm again. She hadn't even been sure of what she'd done to anger him so abruptly, but she regretted having done it, whatever it was, feeling impetuously the need to keep him happy.

She nodded slowly.

"It's alright." She said. "I'm… I'm sorry if I upset you."

"Oh, no, no, no Harley. It wasn't you. It was the frustration of misunderstanding. I'm faced with it frequently, you see, and it at times can cause me to forget myself."

Her face suddenly fell. Did he think she didn't understand him? Had she just destroyed the level of trust she'd worked months to build?

"Oh, no!" He exclaimed. "Nooo… I understand. I do." Her lower lip pouted slightly and she looked very concerned. He struggled not to laugh.

"You… you do?" And his tone was very hopeful, even somehow pleading.

She nodded enthusiastically.

"Absolutely."

She tried to sound confident in what she was saying. The truth was, she didn't _really_ understand. The way he spoke of these things, it was as though the ideas had come from the sanest of men, not a fractured mind. But his views and behavior were so extreme, clashed so violently with what was appropriate. It was going to take time for him to come around and see the error of his ways, she knew that. It was going to take work. But she was certain that, given the time, she would be able to rehabilitate him, help him reenter society as a productive, functioning citizen. And, given the opportunity to prove him self, she also felt certain in his ability to apply his many talents to some worth-while endeavor, and to attain great respect among his peers.

If she was being honest with herself, she had to admit she admired him. He was easily the most charismatic person she'd ever met. Something about him just drew her in. When he was in the room, it was as if everything and everyone else faded in to the background, like he was the only thing that mattered. She found more and more that, outside their sessions, her mind filled with him. With images of his face, with the sound of his voice, and with the things he'd said to her, told her. So it seemed obsessive, but it wasn't as if she were attracted to him like _that_. Though, she had to concede, he was sort of handsome, and he _was _awfully charming. But it was only because she'd found a greater purpose in being his doctor that so much of her time was now consumed by thoughts of him. She felt driven to save him. And they _were _able to relate with one another, having faced similar hardships, what with people disregarding them and never lending a helping hand or an offer of encouragement. He was just misguided. If people weren't so ready to judge him on his actions alone, if they could just have the chance to talk to him like she did, they would see he wasn't such a bad guy after all. She began to theorize that, growing up, maybe he'd never had anyone to show him the correct ways of conducting himself or of how to interact with others. She hoped she would be the one to teach him. She would have to get him to open up about his childhood more if she was going to prove her suspicions, and then use that to convince others of his redeemability.

So even if she didn't really get what he was saying, she had to pretend she did, at least for now. She couldn't just rip his notions away like that. He would need to be weaned off of them, and lent a listening ear in the mean time. He needed to know he could trust her, and that, unlike any of his previous doctors, she actually _cared _about him.

He smiled a wide smile, and she felt a sudden exhilaration at the thought that she'd been responsible for it.

"That's wonderful to know Harley." He spoke. "I can't begin to explain what relief that gives to me."

"Well, it must be hard, always having to explain your self, always being judged so harshly." She felt herself relax, realizing her earlier fumble hadn't ruined things between them like she worried it might have.

He nodded, looking away. "Very." He said, sounding despondent.

A moment of silence past before, abruptly, he lifted himself up, leaning the weight of his torso on to his elbows, and he looked, very suddenly, excited.

"Perhaps then, you wouldn't be bothered if I were to expand on my meaning?"

She looked at him wide eyed and a smile crept up on her lips. Damn. Her recovery had been better executed then she thought. This was good. The more she knew, the more chance she had of helping him.

"I would love to hear more!" She answered.

"Splendid!" And he clasped his hands together before gazing upward and sighing dreamily.

"Harley, sweetheart, remember what I told you. No difference exists between right and wrong because right and wrong, in application to action, does not exist. Thus is must go, without saying, that _killing_ cannot be determined absolutely as either. Society would have you believe that to take a human life is categorically _wrong_. Sinful, immoral, _evil_. Yet even in labeling the act with such superficial and vacant words, they, in the same breath, will tell you there are indeed exceptions to the rule. Killing becomes suddenly acceptable if committed in what they deem the proper context. If, for example, two countries are embroiled with one another in war, killing not only is considered excusable, it is expected and even encouraged. Still, of course, within the perimeters they've outlined, with the weapons they've provided, just so it appears as something controlled and _civil_. Still, the end result remains the same. You've still taken a life. Nothing more, nothing less. Or, let's say you find yourself the target of some attack, your physical well being under threat, well, then it's alright to kill too! After all, it was either you or them. Why, they've even produced an excuse for themselves committing what's been deemed the ultimate trespass! If one executes the expiration of another, then that in turn gives justifiable cause to carry out the same upon them, the death penalty, they like to call it. Killing validates killing. When done within a certain set of boundaries, within a milieu they've determined proper, it no longer is referred to as _murder_, no, now its self-defense, man-slaughter, enemy-fire, punishment, so on and so forth. Still, as I said, the outcome is immutable. It seems a tad hypocritical, does it not? If it is an irrefutable _truth_ that killing is wrong, then how can it _ever _be right? And why then is it considered an act of evil when only people are involved? It isn't called murder when we kill an animal outside our own species. It isn't called murder when other animals kill each other. They may tell you _those_ animals don't possess the mental capacity to comprehend what death is. And that makes their demise somehow less profound then our own, less meaningful? Don't other animals run when faced with danger too? Don't they fight to survive the same as we? Of course they do! People don't understand what death is either. That's why they're so afraid of it. It isn't something they can contain or rule or explain away with fanciful terminology. And when confronted by it, they react as any creature would. The will to _live_ is rooted in nothing more intricate then instinct. People are animals too, and we all are governed by the same basic principles. Not the precepts which keep managed the pretentious world we've created around ourselves so that we might feel some form of significance, but the order of nature! The answer, beautiful, is that killing is neither wrong nor right. It just _is_. The laws people have created, the way in which they qualify everything by assigning it a meaning, a definition, a reason; it all is for one purpose and one purpose alone. To keep them alive. The great joke of it is," he began a low, deep chuckle. "despite the immense effort they put forth in trying to stave death off, they all inevitably will perish, regardless!" And his chuckle grew to uproarious laughter.

But just as suddenly as his laughter had begun, it stopped, and he looked at Harleen with desperate eyes.

"Like any great artist, my purpose is to reflect life unerringly. Life is one, momentous gag, and death, my darling, is the punch line! I desire only for others to grasp, as wholly as I, the humor in it all. Only… only nobody does. They regard themselves far too gravely to accept the truth, that we've all been made fools of. They choose instead to overlook that truths existence. They say I'm deranged. But insanity as a concept is for identifying the deviant. Places like this were made for people like me Harley. Not because I am of unsound mind, as they say, but because they wish not to be faced with the falsity of their standards. If, by their determination of madness, I am mad, if by their basis of reality, I cannot discern what is real, then to uphold the pretense of those conclusions, the illusion that they hold some value, they never can concede to any summation of my sanity, and they thus can never, truly punish me as they would punish others who have engaged in similar conduct. I serve only to remind them of what they _cannot_ do if they desire to maintain the front of their civility and their assertions of what is true. And they _do_ hate me for it."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10:**

He had told her the truth. It was the first time he had told her the entire truth about _anything, _really. He let her know that he didn't consider himself insane. That people only labeled him _as_ because they _had_ to. His thought patterns differed so greatly from their own that, if they _didn't_ say he was out of his mind, it would compromise the validity of the criterion they'd put in place for _everything_. They _wanted _to kill him, but they couldn't, not if they wanted also to preserve the conditions by which they measured madness. By those provisions, they are definitively, perfectly sane, absolutely capable of comprehending the meaning and consequence of their actions. And so they never could justify extinguishing someone who, by those same qualifications, is incapable of apprehending the ramifications or the import of his deeds. It was all about retaining an _image_ of them selves as lawful and fair, not about actually _being_ those things. They had to sustain the idea of them as civilized and as guided by some divine code of universal canon, if only to make themselves feel better about their position in life, and to hold to their power. And look how many had died, all because they placed retaining the _guise_ of their values above actually believing in those values. The hypocrisy was too much! He laughed over how it rendered them essentially ineffectual against him! They could do nothing to him if they wanted to convey that their principles actually meant something!

He had told her all this only for the reason that it served his plans. He knew she was working to gain his trust. And he knew also from the way she now looked at him that her motives had somehow shifted. Her eyes no longer shown the frustrated need and nervous self-interest they had before. They now reflected affection, sympathy, and a longing to understand. She wanted to help him. He felt ill just thinking about it. _She_ was the one who needed help, the simpering little wench. He was perfectly fine. But still, her new desires would prove useful. His timing could not have been better. He had brought her along at exactly the right pace and he now had her where he wished. She needed confirmation that she could cut it as a psychiatrist. Probably something to do with how she got those grades again, and with how the other doctors at Arkham no doubt regarded her with skepticism. The way she dressed was alone enough to give away her scatterbrained temperament. How her skirts were too short and her blouses too tight. He knew she didn't believe in herself from how she delivered her questions to him. The way she would pause briefly between each word, how her voice trembled just vaguely and how she wore a doubtful expression at the end of each sentence, as though she were questioning herself more so then him. She wasn't at all sure of what she was doing, that was apparent. His trusting her would give her that confirmation, would make her feel deserving and special. And what better way to make her feel she'd earned that trust then by openly sharing with her his philosophies, the world and life and people through his eyes?! She would eat it up, feel privileged, reinforce in her mind that he saw her as some sort of kindred spirit, "_As if_.", and in turn reinforce her feeling the same of him. Trust and relation; the way to controlling another persons mind. Besides, if she was going to be his cheer-leader side kick, at least until he decided to kill her, she eventually was going to have to know how he saw things, regardless of whether she understood or not. And she never would, he knew that. She simply lacked the intellectual capacity. But, if he could get her _admiring_ his perspective _now_, and the clarity with which he saw life, it would make for a more solid foundation later. And oh, had he executed it beautifully thus far! The look on her face when he'd finished his little speech on the absurdity of morality and people's notions of right and wrong! He knew then he had made the right decision in telling her. Certainly she still was struggling, torn between knowing he was right but remaining hindered by the conditioning of society telling her he was wrong. But she was already his. It would take only a little work more to push her over the edge, in to complete devotion, in to unquestioning, unconditional love. It was just a matter of his turning up the charm, dropping a few more observations about who she was, coaxing her out of her shell until she saw him as her confident. He laughed, thinking about how she thought she was gaining his trust when, in actuality, it was he who was gaining hers.

__________________________________________________________________

She wondered down the hallway to her office with something like longing in her heart.

Yet Harleen wasn't quite sure _what_ she was feeling. It was strange, like a tugging at her soul, like an emptiness. It hadn't started until after her last session with The Joker had ended, until after she had watched two guards take him from the room. She scarcely even noticed the different faces which dragged him away. And they did _drag_ him, didn't they? She was beginning to wonder why they had to be so rough. Didn't they realize they could hurt him that way?! A shot of anger ran through her at the image of them pushing him out the door, making him stumble. Someone as… well, as _special_ as he was should have been treated with greater respect. They could at least be more gentle, she thought.

She heard his voice in her head, telling her how misunderstood he was, telling her how much it hurt to be all alone in his vision. How he felt persecuted.

"_They regard themselves far too gravely to accept the truth, that we've all been made fools of. They choose instead to overlook that truths existence. They say I'm deranged. But insanity as a concept is for identifying the deviant. Places like this were made for people like me Harley. Not because I am of unsound mind, as they say, but because they wish not to be faced with the falsity of their standards. If, by their determination of madness, I am mad, if by their basis of reality, I cannot discern what is real, then to uphold the pretense of those conclusions, the_ _illusion that they hold some value, they never can concede to any summation of my sanity, and they thus can never, truly punish me as they would punish others who have engaged in similar conduct. _ _ I serve only to remind them of what they __cannot__ do if they desire to maintain the front of their civility and their assertions of what is true. And they __do__ hate me for it."_

It pained her to realize just how isolated he felt. And yet, he had trusted _her_ with that vision. He'd told her all about it. With great _passion _he'd told her. And maybe it was because he saw her as someone who _would_ understand. She felt all giddy inside at the prospect. When he spoke, to her it didn't sound like the ravings of a lunatic, but the well thought out, brilliant observations of a man who knew cold what he was speaking of. Of course, she couldn't agree with him, no matter how logical he sounded. In the end, it just wouldn't work. She knew he would never be able to function outside the asylum properly if she couldn't convince him he was wrong. But then, she felt guilty knowing he had thought of her as someone who would get it, and yet here she was, still questioning and doubting him.

Slowly, she pushed the door to her office open, feeling along the wall for the light switch, flicking it up when she found it.

Her eyes were caught by a displaced splotch of red on her desk and as she focused on the spot, she quickly realized it was a rose. A single rose in a simple vase, with a note attached.

She walked with curiosity towards it, gazing upon it in wonder. Who would have given her a rose? She wasn't currently dating. Maybe one of the guards? They _had_ been ogling her since she arrived.

She reached for the note, grasping it between her delicate fingers and turning it towards her.

"Come down and see me sometime." It read. "- J"

Immediately she felt her heart catch in her throat, knowing who it was from.

"_How did?_" She began to wonder, picking the flower up, caressing it in her hands before bringing the bud to her nose and inhaling deeply. "_Probably bribed one of those stupid guards_." She thought. This wouldn't do. He needed to be taught why things like that, along with his more serious offenses, _weren't _okay. Though, she had to concede, his giving a flower to her _was _romantic, and in some way, exhilarating.

_____________________________________________________________________

"Hello David." She greeted the security guard outside the maximum security wing. "I need to see one of my patients. Is it okay if I just step inside? I'll only be a few minutes."

The burley man looked down at her, and she felt disgust at how his eyes wondered shamelessly up and down her frame. The men in this place had so little class, especially when compared to The Joker, she thought.

David bit his lip before finally brining his gaze to her face.

"Long as you know the rules Ms. Quinzel, everything should be fine."

She felt the sudden urge of vomit.

"I know." She said. "And call me Harley, please."

His brows shot up.

"Okay… If you say so. What's that you got in your hand there?" He asked, eyeing the note she held.

"It's just a gift…" She explained. "From my _boyfriend_."

She wasn't sure why she'd added that last part. Maybe she felt it was a way to get this lookie-loo off her back?

"Oh…" He said, sounding deflated. "Five minutes enough?"

"Plenty." She smiled before slipping past him.

Inside, she was reminded of just how unsettling this area was. She hadn't been there since that first day. She hadn't had a reason to come. The noise was the same as she'd remembered. The anguished screams and low moans of the poor souls locked away here. As she moved towards the end of the corridor, she thought of The Joker, trapped inside this place 24 hours a day, with the exception of their one hour appointment together every Friday, and she thought very suddenly how unfair it was that he should be made to stay among all these madmen. He didn't belong down here. He wasn't like this! Like these other patients. He was special! He had special needs! How could they hope for him to recover if his creativity was constantly stifled and left without stimulation?

She quickened her pace towards his cell, feeling anxious and afraid, both for herself, and oddly, for him.

"Joker?" She called through the bars when at last she reached his pen.

He'd heard her coming, her heels clicking loudly against the concrete floor, and he smiled, standing from his bed, walking towards the door.

She was standing there, peering up at the tiny window, and he looked down at her, noting how she held the note with attention.

"Care to tell me how this got in my office?" She asked.

"I put it there." He answered smoothly.

She narrowed her eyes incredulously. That was impossible.

"Really? And how exactly did you manage that?"

He smiled, though she could see only his eyes.

"Some secretes are best kept as, my dear."

She frowned. She couldn't explain it, but she'd felt hurt by what he said. Like she couldn't be trusted. Maybe he had just lied, to save him the embarrassment of having to admit he really _was_ a prisoner here. Yeah, that was probably it. It was inconceivable that he could have escaped. The security system in place was new, just put in over the last 12 months. The doors were electronically operated. Each cell could be locked and unlocked _only_ by entering a special, individualized code in to a panel outside each room. And the codes were changed each week, just for good measure.

"I see. I think Dr. Leland and the guards would be interested to know you've been out of your cell." She said, trying to sound reprimanding. He had to know that, as sweet as the gesture was, his breaking the rules of the asylum just simply wasn't acceptable behavior; that included having gifts delivered.

"If you were going to tell them…" He began. "You already would have."

Her eyes widened. She hadn't thought of it like that. She'd told herself that, at some point, she was going to have to start showing him the error of his ways. But subconsciously, she'd also known that telling anyone about the rose would not only get him in to trouble, but might also interfere somehow in their sessions together.

He sighed loudly.

"I know I shouldn't have." He said, his tone remorseful. "I know it was taking a risk. But I wanted so badly just to see you. Friday seemed like such an eternity away."

"R-really?" She stammered, and an odd warmth rose up in her at his words.

"Yes. I admit, I'm becoming a bit attached. After the other day, well, I just felt as though I finally had someone to talk to. Someone who would listen. Someone who would understand. It's hard to explain Harley. But ever since we last spoke, I've felt a sense of incredible relief. And it's all because of you. I'm certain of it."

She blushed, and she couldn't help it as a smile formed on her lips. Did he really feel that way? About _her_?

He'd just confirmed he did.

"Well that's… that's wonderful." She finally said. "I feel honored that you would think of me that way. Just you… you shouldn't be out of your cell. You might get hurt. And I'd hate to think of myself as the cause of something bad happening to you."

He wanted to laugh. How ridiculous she was!

"I know." He said. "I promise not to do it again. But it worked, mmm? Here you are. And, I must say, far more pleasing company then the neighbors."

"Oh, you poor thing." She said without thinking, quickly looking down and covering her mouth. He grinned a devilish grin.

"Don't worry my little Harlequin. I'm just fine. It's you I'm concerned with."

She looked up.

"Me?"

"Yes dear. I can see you're under some amount of stress. I wish very much I could relieve you of it."

She stared wide eyed up at him.

"The burden of your hidden angst. I know how that feels. You too need someone to confide in. Someone to share your… secretes with."

How did he see these things?! She hadn't told anyone, but she _had_ been anxiety ridden the last, several months. All communication with her friends had tapered off in to practically nothing, she wasn't getting out of the house anymore, she wasn't having fun. She felt lonely, and weighed down by the fear that they all _knew_. Knew she was a fake! She could see it in their eyes, in the way they looked at her. That they couldn't believe _she_ was one of them. That _she_ could be smart enough to attain the same status as they had. And she felt they were right. The truth was, her grades were a falsity. She had barely passed her courses, and had needed to resort to doing "special favors" for her professors. She hadn't had a choice! She couldn't bare the thought of going back home a failure, facing the disapproving eyes of her parents. But now she lived with the constant paranoia of it being found out that her qualifications were a lie; of them discovering her to be nothing more then mediocre; totally undeserving of her position among them. She feared she would lose her job, and it was driving her mad. Her throat tightened, and she felt suddenly as if she were going to cry. Nobody could see her pain; everyone was so blissfully unaware of how she suffered.

Everyone but _him_.

She gazed at him, her eyes shining, and he knew she was ready to give in. Give him all of her misery. He licked his lips in anticipation.

"You can tell me Harley." He whispered.

"Times up Ms. Quinzel!" The moment was destroyed by David pushing open the door and yelling down the hall to her.

"Uh… I mean… Harley."

The Joker clenched his teeth, anger boiling up rapidly inside him.

"The _moron_."

He breathed out heavily through his nose, closing his eyes to regain his composure. He would just have to add the cretin to the list, along with Richard and John. "_Rich and John!_" He laughed inwardly at the thought of them. They had requested a transfer of duty after their little confrontation together. As if that would save them, he thought with growing amusement.

"Until next time, my sweet." He spoke softly to Harley. She blinked, looking away.

"Uh, yeah. I'll see you Friday." She answered hurriedly, before turning and heading back down the corridor.

"I'll see _you_ Harley Quinn. I'll see _you_." He snickered lowly to himself. And as he heard the door to the ward shut tight, his snickering grew to intense laughter, and the other patients screamed, pleading for it to stop.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11:**

"I've requested that your privileges be reinstated." Harley informed The Joker as he lay shackled against the couch.

"Oh?" He answered.

"Yes." She nodded. "I don't feel it's appropriate you being locked in that cell 24 hours a day, with no way to exercise your creativity. You've been on good behavior for months now, and it's time they take that in to account."

"Do these privileges include seeing more of you?"

She paused, struggling not to smile.

"…I'm afraid not. Still just our one session, every Friday. But they will allow you access to the rec. room, as well as to the cafeteria and library." She said. "We should know in a few days if it's been approved."

He pouted.

"Oh, but what fun is it without you there darling?"

She giggled like a little girl, looking down.

"I'm flattered." She finally answered, after managing to reign in her abashment. "But don't you want to be able to do these things? Have company while you eat? Have access to books and television? Maybe you would even get to stage another of your magic shows?!" She said excitedly.

He shrugged.

"I'd much prefer performing for you sweetheart. Someone who can actually _appreciate_ my talents."

Her expression was compassionate.

"…The other inmates don't?" She questioned.

He linked his hands together and stretched his arms out, sighing.

"They seem somehow distracted when I give a display of my skills." He said. "Their amusement appears forced, for a reason I cannot fathom. I find it discouraging."

"Oh." She said, sounding sympathetic.

Suddenly, his eyes lit up and he looked excitedly at her.

"Perhaps I _could _perform for you Harley!"

She looked puzzled.

"…How do you mean?" She asked. And before she could see what had happened, he was holding in one hand a deck of cards. It was as though they had appeared from thin air. She hadn't seen him take them out from any place.

"How did you?"

"Slight of hand my dear." He answered her quickly. "You would be amazed at what things you can sneak past the guards when their eyes cannot follow your movements. Paperclips, for example."

And once again, before she could see what had even happened, his hands were free from their restraints, his feet too, and he was sitting up fully.

Fear suddenly gripped her, and she pushed back in to her seat.

"Oh my God." She fumbled, her voice shaking.

"Don't be frightened Harlequin. I have no intent to harm you." He spoke measuredly, his tone reassuring.

"You… you picked the locks?"

"Mmm, so I did!" He smiled, looking at the hanging cuffs by his side with mock astonishment.

"But I didn't… I didn't even see you move!"

"Slight of hand doll, remember?" He said.

"You're not going to… to hurt me, are you?" Her voice still wavered.

His brow creased in concern and he shook his head.

"No Harley. As I've said, harming you is not my intent. If it were, I would already have been upon you."

She wasn't sure if that statement made her feel better or worse.

"W-what are you going to do?"

"I'm going to perform for you!" He smiled broadly, swinging his legs around to face her. He began then to shuffle the deck in the one hand which held it, each card flipping in rapid succession with seamless fluidity over the other. Her eyes could barely follow the movement, and more and more the speed at which the cards shuffled increased, until they were nothing but a blur. And then they disappeared, and he held out his hands as though confused.

"Where did they go?" He asked, as if she should know.

She shook her head and then shrugged.

"I… I don't know."

And just as suddenly as they had vanished, they reappeared, held now in the opposite hand.

"There they are! The little buggers!" He laughed.

And the same shuffling motion began. Only this time, in one, swift movement, he splayed them across the floor before him, perfectly spaced from each other, face down.

"Pick a card Harley sweetheart!"

"Pick a card?"

He nodded.

"Uh… A-ace of clubs?" She stammered.

He smiled, bending down, reaching for a card and picking it with confidence. He held it up and sure enough, it was the ace of clubs.

She laughed in delight.

"And just so you know they're not all of the same kind…"

He quickly scooped the deck together again and spread them face up so she could see that, indeed, they were all different.

"Oh, wow!" She exclaimed, genuinely amazed. "That's fantastic!"

"Kids stuff honey." He grinned. "I'm of course without the necessary materials to stage any sort of grand display, but I have enough to manage a few, neat tricks."

And again, before her eyes could see, he produced a set of juggling balls which he began to toss in to the air, and catch individually as each came down, before again throwing them up and repeating the action. He did this with great speed and coordination and Harley found her self transfixed.

He began to speak to her while juggling, looking at her, paying no mind, it seemed, to what his hands were doing.

"I would like, very much, if one day I could perform for you a full show." He said.

"I would like that too." She answered, mesmerized.

And suddenly he stopped, placing the balls down, sitting back on the couch and shackling himself with the cuffs.

Harley appeared dazed and confused.

"…Why did you stop?" She asked, disappointed, and he looked at her ponderously.

"It just occurred to me I may never get that chance." He answered sadly.

She felt her heart break in two. She thought she might die from how badly she felt for him.

What was more, she felt a very sudden a sense of guilt over having been afraid. There was no reason to be! He had been _free_, had even demonstrated how he could have achieved the same during their many sessions together. And yet not once, not _once_ had he tried to hurt her.

"You'll get the chance. I promise ya will." She said, and it didn't escape him how the effort to disguise her thick accent had slipped.

He smiled at her.

"That's kind of you Harley." And he paused. "Tell me, what's been bothering you so lately?"

"Hmm?" She looked surprised, as though she hadn't at all been expecting him to redirect the focus on her.

"The other day, when you came to visit me in my cell. You wanted to tell me Harley. You're afraid of something, aren't you? It's what's causing you those restless nights. I can see from those heavy circles about your eyes."

"I…" She looked away. "I appreciate your concern but…"

"But what Harley? Are you hesitant to tell me because it's against the rules? Because Dr. Leland told you never to speak about yourself with the patients? With, most especially, me?"

She felt her heartbeat quicken. How had he known that?

"No!" She lied. "It's just, it's unprofessional. I'm… I'm supposed to be treating you, not the other way around."

He sighed.

"You've already helped me Harley. More then you realize."

"I... have?" She sounded disbelieving.

He nodded.

"Yes darling. You have. Despite what you may think of yourself, or how the other doctors in this so called asylum may regard you."

Her eyes widened.

"Wh-what do you mean?" She asked, a noticeable tremor running through her voice.

"I know you doubt yourself Harley." He answered simply. "I know you fear others doubting you just the same. I want you to tell me _why_."

"I… I can't. It's… It's so unprofessional."

He looked away.

"Suit yourself then." He said nonchalantly. "I was just trying to help."

A moment of silence past between them, and he turned his head further away to hide his smile. He hadn't been able to hold it, knowing she was about to crack.

"You'll… you'll hate me if I tell you. You'll feel like I've betrayed you." She whispered at last.

And he turned back to her, his eyes showing care and concern.

"I could never think that of you Harley." He told her. "Whatever it is, it doesn't change you being the first doctor who's ever, _really_, made me feel better about things. Clearly you're more qualified for this position then any other."

Suddenly she burst in to tears, burying her face in her hands.

"But t-that's just it." She sobbed. "I… I-I'm not a real doctor."

"_Be still my heart! She's ready!!_"

"I-I nearly failed out of my classes. I…" And she paused, a fresh wave of tears falling from her eyes, her body convulsing violently.

The Joker bit down hard on his lip to keep from laughing. He thought he might die trying to suppress the delight he felt at her misery.

"I… I n-never would have gotten this job if-if… Oh God, I did the only thing I knew how to! I can't say it… I'm so ashamed."

He already knew. He would save her the embarrassment of having to tell him.

"You made love to your professors."

She looked up, her cheeks tear stained, her blue eyes filled with yet more, ready to spill over, her lower lip trembling.

"You… you knew?" She squeaked, shock and fear mixed in to her voice. "Oh God, you must hate me." She cried. "You must feel so cheated, so disgusted!"

"No Harley." He spoke softly. "I don't hate you. And feel neither cheated nor disgusted. In fact, I might say I rather admire you more now."

She looked completely at a loss, sobs still escaping her throat, the room still filled with the sounds of her sniffling. Looking at her was beginning to make him nauseous.

"Y-you do?" She stuttered.

"Yes." He nodded.

"Ya mean, you're not mad at me?"

"No." He shook his head. "It reminds me of something I might have done. The smartest people aren't those with the best grades my dear. They're the ones who know instinctively how to get what they want and then take whatever that might be."

"R-really?!" Her voice shook. "You really think so?"

Again he nodded. "You're too hard on yourself Harley-girl. You haven't allowed yourself to have any fun; you've abstained from all excitement because of the desire to satisfy others. You need to stop trying so hard to please these people who don't see all your many virtues to begin with. They aren't deserving of your time or attention. That includes, sweetheart, those emotionally stingy and self-centered parent's of yours. I mean, truly, what does it matter _how_ you earned your doctorate when you've lasted longer with me then nearly all my therapists combined? If anything should be proof enough that you're as qualified as any of them, it is that. _I_ think you're special. That's all that's important."

She sniffled, wiping at her eyes. God, he was so _wonderful_! It was like he knew everything!

"I knew you'd understand!" She managed, her emotions finally calming.

"Of course I do Harley. Remember, you and I are very much the same. You're one of the few people I've ever felt a relation to."

She smiled, her cheeks blushing, overcome with sweet elation at his words.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12:**

"How are things going with the Joker Harleen?" Joan asked as she prepared her coffee at the counter.

"Please, call me Harley." She answered.

"Harley?" Joan sat down, a puzzled look on her face.

Harley shrugged. "It's what all my friends call me." She lied. "I just thought, you know, since we've gotten to know each other so well, might as well make it a bit less formal."

"Well, alright. If that's what you want to be called." The older woman consented. "So, The Joker?" She asked again.

Harley couldn't help but smile at the mention of his name.

"Things are going really well!" She said enthusiastically. "I think he's really starting to trust me. He's been talking a lot lately.

"I've heard you requested a reinstatement of his privileges?"

"Yes." Harley nodded. "I feel it would be conducive to his rehabilitation if he were allowed interaction with the other inmates and access to certain media, such as television and reading material."

Joan nodded.

"You of course are aware of his track record with these things though?"

Harley furrowed her brow and looked vaguely annoyed.

"I'm aware." She said, her tone snippy. "But we've got to give him a chance. There hasn't been a single incident involving him for nearly 5 months now!"

Joan sighed. "Well, it's under the board of review as we speak, so we'll see I guess. How about everything else? How are things going with your other patients?"

Other patients? Harley was barely aware she even had other patients at this point. She'd been passing her time with them by thinking about _him_, pulling a classic Hollywood shrink going through the motions, nodding and saying "How does that make you feel?"

"Things are fine." She said flatly. "Everything's fine."

The Joker was lying on his cot, many thoughts passing through his mind. He thought about his little pet project in Harley Quinn, and how nicely that was coming along. She already loved him, now he just had to show her she did and make sure that love was unconditional. Meaning, he could do whatever the hell he pleased and she'd still beg to be near him. He thought about Richard and John, and how much he wanted to kill them. Oh, and Daniel too! The party simply wouldn't be the same without him! But mostly, he thought about Batman, and how much he missed their play time together. He would have to leave this place soon. He was growing weary of it. The only thing that had really been keeping him this long was his work with Harley, and that was nearly complete. A few more sessions and she would be his for good.

He was jarred from his thoughts by the sound of the key pad outside his room beeping and the whooshing noise of the locks opening. He sat up, wondering what they could possibly be bothering him for this time. It was Wednesday, so no appointment with his little Harlequin, and electro-shock was on Mondays. And they'd already given him his meds. Maybe the little fiend had actually managed to have his privileges reinstated, and they were coming to bring him to some mind-numbingly boring part of the asylum. God, he hoped not. He watched as the door pulled open and three, typically sized Arkham guards stepped in, the last one closing the thick, metal slab behind them.

"_Hmmm_." He thought. "_That was your first mistake._"

It was obvious what this was all about. He suddenly was very exited. The months of having not killed anyone were beginning to take their toll. The desire had grown nearly unmanageable. Even just to gouge somebody's eyes out would have sufficed, he thought, if the option to outright expire them did not present itself. He just needed some sort of action. Maybe this would prove to be it!

"Hello boys." The Joker greeted them cheerily, and he grinned. "What can I do you for?"

They looked nervous. Why did they even bother trying, he wondered.

All three held nightsticks in their hands, and the largest of them stepped forward.

"I heard what you been sayin' to Richard clown." He began.

The Joker rolled his eyes. "A plot of revenge, huh? Rather cliché, don't you think?"

"Richard's my boy. He ain't no fag like you clown!"

The Joker ran his hands over his face and sighed loudly.

"Referring to him as your "boy" might suggest otherwise." He laughed.

"Shut that pasty face fruit loop! I didn't say you could talk!"

The Joker again rolled his eyes. "_Dense __and__ he has no sense of humor! Simply unforgivable!_"

"Yes, well, this is all very boring." He said. "Shall we come to the point then?"

"The point, you pathetic sack of shit, is that you can't go around pushing your gay ass on us, makin' threats towards our lives and _still_ think nothin's gonna happen to you!"

Oh, this one was of a lively sort. The other two stood back, glancing at each other with increasing unease as each word came from their appointed leader's mouth. The Joker couldn't decide which of them was the biggest fool. The Neanderthal making a stink or the two lackeys for allowing themselves to be talked in to this.

"Now, Mark, is it?" He began, glancing at the hysterical guards name tag. "Listen to me. There's no need to become so incensed. I know how irresistibly gorgeous I am, and I'm perfectly willing to share myself amongst the lot of you. But, really, all these dramatics; it's completely unnecessary and frankly, the whole jealous rage shtick isn't very becoming. You only needed to ask."

That got the thickheaded buffoon going pretty good, The Joker thought, watching the man's face turn bright red.

"You're askin' for a beatin' you freak show!"

"Oh, so you're in to that whole S&M trip, are you?" The Joker laughed. "I can dig it."

Mark was fuming now; his teeth clenched tight, his knuckles white from how tightly he gripped his club.

"The more you talk, the worse it's gonna be!" He warned.

The Joker stood suddenly, with what seemed impossible quickness, and he now stared down at the three men.

"Well then, let's have it fellas." He answered smoothly, chuckling as he watched them inadvertently take a step back. "Oh come now, don't tell me you're afraid!? There's three of you and only one of me, and from the looks of those rippling muscles, you no doubt outweigh me by a good hundred pounds."

"We're not afraid of you, you sick bastard!" Mark dared.

The Joker held his hands out.

"Well come on then. You have the clubs. Why don't you start what you came here to finish?" And he moved towards them.

"Perhaps a little kiss would sufficiently inspire you to action?" He whispered lowly as he bent down to Mark's ear, close enough so that the guard could feel his breath on his neck.

"Get OFF a me you God-damned queer!"

He pushed the lunatic away with all his strength, causing him to stumble backward, on to the bed, and The Joker began to laugh.

"That's the spirit!" He encouraged, picking himself up, watching as all three came in on him, their clubs held high, ready to strike. Mark was the first to reach him, slamming his nightstick in to The Joker's arm, and he laughed even harder.

"Come on big fella, I know you've got more in you then _that_!"

"Shut _up_!" Mark raged, smashing his fist in to the madman's face.

The other two joined in and soon, all three were kicking and clubbing him, reducing him to his knees.

The Joker was laughing so hard he barely could breathe, which served to only further enrage his attackers, and they beat him more viciously.

"C-come on boys." He managed between fits of hysterics. "Hit me h-harder! Put some…" He continued to laugh, nearly wheezing with the intensity of it. "Put some m-muscle in to it!"

And so they did. Over and over they brought their sticks down on him, put their boots to his stomach and back. And the harder they beat him, the harder he laughed. Until, finally, they grew exhausted and could do no more, backing away from The Joker's crumpled figure as it lay on the floor, still convulsing from his fervent giggling.

"That'll teach the freak. Now let's split." Mark ordered, turning, and the other two followed.

They nearly were to the door when they heard The Joker's voice.

"Going so soon?!" He said, and they spun around to find him standing, his smile gapping, blood dripping steadily from his nose and mouth.

"And here I was, thinking the party had only just begun!"

They looked aghast, utterly stunned to see him on his feet. They had just gotten through _battering_ him. He must have been in _incredible_ pain. But to look at him, to see his demeanor, one never would have guessed it were so.

"Back off clown!" Mark ordered. "Unless you want another dose!"

"That's just fine." The Joker responded coolly, as though he welcomed the invitation. "But I'm afraid I can't let you go."

"Oh yeah? We'll see about that!" Mark answered, coming back towards him. His confidence was up, just as The Joker had wanted, and as soon as the guard was within distance, he latched on to the over-grown thug with a strength betraying his frail appearance, spinning him around in one, swift motion and relieving him of his weapon.

His forearm was soon pressing mercilessly in to Mark's wind pipe, and he held the truncheon, red with his own blood, in his other hand.

"Gahh-g-gill em!" The guard struggled to say, his hands prying uselessly at The Joker's arm. The other two looked on, frozen in utter horror.

"GILL EM!" Mark screamed as the pressure on his throat increased and the air to his lungs began quickly to dissipate.

"Yes boys, come along and kill me. I welcome you to try." The Joker wore a leering grin, dangling the club loosely in his long fingers.

"G-go get help!" One of them said. "Get help now!" And the other moved for the door.

"Ah, ah." The Joker waved the stick disapprovingly. "Naughty, naughty. Joker says, no one gets to leave."

And before any of them could even begin to process what was taking place, The Joker had grasped Mark's head in both his hands and twisted it around with great speed and force, causing the neck to snap almost instantly, before coming upon the others, too quickly for them to react, and cracking the billy across their faces, first one, then the other, with a brutal focus and efficiency. Immediately they fell to the ground, and The Joker bludgeoned their skulls, over and over, their blood drenching his pants and shirt, dripping from his hands and arms, until they were no longer recognizable as anything distinctly human.

When he had finished, he stared with wonderment at what he had done, and he thought it a rather beautiful sight.

"Now weren't you boys ever warned about the dangers of having too much fun?"

He bent down, examining the bile which had come up from the two guard's throats as they were being beaten across the face.

He gasped in false astonishment.

"Will you look at that?! Seems you boys may have found the recreation disagreeable!"

And he began to laugh.

"What? What's that you say?" He stopped, bending his ear to the bloodied bodies. "You don't think that's funny!? Oh, for shame." The Joker stood upright. "Why, Mark thinks it's hilarious. Don't you Mark!?"

He bound quickly over to where he'd left the broken necked guard, studying the body briefly before picking it up, on to its feet, and holding it as a ballroom dancer might hold their partner. The head of the corpse lolled awkwardly backward and to the side, and The Joker began to laugh again as he twirled around the room with it, doing a kind of fox trot.

He kept this up for a good while before coming to an abrupt stop, holding the body out and away from him, looking at it with saddened eyes, his lips forming a frown.

"Lost some of that old spring in our step, now have we Mark? I must say, I'm fairly disheartened. I was so looking forward to continuing further in our shared gayety and laughter, but between the three of you, them being such spoilsports, you simply lacking the vigor, if I didn't know any better, I would say it's a little as though dealing with cadavers! No charge! No electricity!"

And he dropped the body on the spot, letting it fall heavily to the floor, before moving over to the cell door and looking out through the bars.

"Psss, Harv!" The Joker whispered loudly. There was no response. "Oh, don't tell me you've slept through all the excitement?!" He giggled.

"What about you lizard lips!" He called out to Wayland Jones, a few cells down. "Did'ja enjoy the show?!"

"Leave me alone Joker!"

"Oh, come now fish breath, I thought surely _you_ could appreciate how the game was played this time."

"What about you Johnny? If only you could have seen the look on their faces, I'm certain you would have applauded the effort. The whole fear in their eyes thing was right up your ally!"

"I'm sure Joker." The former psychiatrist responded, sounding weary and bored.

The Joker sighed.

"Goodness, the whole of you act nearly as dead as the fine members of security now accompanying me in my room. No fun at all."


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13:**

"Dr. Quinzel, you _don't_ seem to understand!" Jeremiah Arkham tried explaining for what seemed the 5th or 6th time. "He's in the medical ward, he won't be coming in for therapy treatment this week, or maybe even next week. He _isn't_ allowed visitors. Do you even know what he _did_?!"

"I'm aware of what happened, yes." Harley answered, not bothering to hide the agitation in her voice.

"Then you're aware of the gruesome details; of how utterly mutilated two of the bodies were; of how the other ones neck was broken?!"

Harley flinched. She didn't really want to think about that part, and she watched as Dr. Leland place her forehead in to her hands, clearly exhausted. They'd been discussing the matter for the last 45 minutes and neither party had budged.

"I'm sure there's some explanation for why this happened." She continued to argue. "He hasn't had an incident in months! We know it wasn't an escape attempt! The door was left unlocked, he could have waltzed right out, but he didn't. He didn't leave the area even once!"

Dr. Arkham sighed. "Dr. Quinzel, I know this is probably a disappointment for you. You no doubt felt you had been making progress with the patient, and this probably shatters whatever notions you had supporting that belief."

"I _have _been making progress Dr. Arkham!" She hissed, clearly angered by the accusation that she had not. "There's a _reason_ he did this. That's why I need to talk to him! If he continues untreated, he may only become worse!"

"Dr. Quinzel, I'm a bit befuddled by what you're saying. Being his doctor for the past six months, I thought you'd have realized by now that The Joker doesn't _need_ a reason to kill. _Ever_. He does it whenever it strikes his fancy to do so. That's _it_!"

"I've read the reports Dr. Arkham! He says he was attacked!" Her voice grew louder, and her thoughts suddenly came back to what The Joker had told her about how people justify killing when done is self-defense. "Isn't that a sufficient enough an excuse for why he killed those men?!"

"There's _no_ excuse for what he did Dr. Quinzel! You should know that! And that's what _he _says happened. The Joker is a _known_ liar! It would hardly be the first time he's made up some excuse. He does it because, in his twisted mind, he thinks it's _funny_, giving a reason for something he never needed a reason to do in the first place, for something he was going to do regardless of what anyone else did!"

"Oh!? Then why's he in the medical ward? How do you explain that?" She continued to push.

"I'm just gong to assume you actually did your research before taking him on as a patient, Dr. Quinzel. So you should be aware of the fact that, not only is he known to _lie,_ but he's also been known to beat himself senseless. Sometimes for something just like this, so it seems like _he's_ the victim. I can tell you he wasn't exactly "shaken up" when we found him, laughing and talking the place up. Most times he's beaten himself just for the hell of it, for no reason at all! He's a _masochist_ Dr. Quinzel. He _likes_ pain. I'm sure you've read up on that particular part of his personality."

Harley was growing more and more aggravated by Jeremiah's condensation.

"I can tell you, Dr. Arkham, that I indeed thoroughly research _all_ of my patients before beginning treatment. It is, after all, a requirement. With that in mind, you must realize that, out of an also required concern for my patient, I've read the medical reports on what his physical condition was when brought in, and if The Joker _beat_ himself senseless, as it would appear you so wholeheartedly believe, then perhaps you can explain to me _how _it ishe suffered sever swelling and bruising across his entire body, including his _back_, caused by what appears to have been multiple and repeated blows from Arkham issued nightsticks and boots?!"

Dr. Arkahm eyed her. She was a smart little thing, wasn't she? And she had a point. It wasn't very likely, in spite of his history, that The Joker had somehow managed to inflict on himself the type of bodily injuries he had suffered. Though, Dr. Arkham also wouldn't put it past him to somehow figure out a way to do it, and certainly wouldn't put it past his willingness. Frankly, he didn't care how The Joker had ended up in his current condition. The bastard deserved it, as far as he was concerned.

He sighed.

"Alright Doctor. You've made your case and I'm tired of arguing. If you're really that concerned with your patients well being…"

"It's strictly a professional matter Dr. Arkham." She was quick to dissuade any notions that her persistence might be driven by something personal in nature.

"I'm aware of that Dr. Quinzel." He paused. "If Dr. Leland thinks it's alright, I'll allow you to continue treatment. But be advised, a guard will be stationed directly outside the room, and he'll be able to see inside the unit while your session is being conducted. So not a lot of privacy. And the same rules apply as in your regular sessions. You won't be allowed to sit near his bed doctor. Ten feet or more distance is required between you and him."

"I understand Sir." She remand polite, despite feeling total disgust.

"Joan?" Dr. Arkham looked to the older woman.

She was starring at Harley with suspicious eyes.

"Why are you so concerned that a few missed sessions will negatively impact his mental state?" She asked.

Harley hesitated. Was she giving herself away? Was she making it obvious that her concern for The Joker ran somehow deeper then their relationship should? She wasn't even entirely sure herself why she was so anxiety ridden over hearing he had been admitted to the medical ward. She cared about him. She knew that. But until this had happened, she hadn't been entirely aware of just how much.

"I've just been making strides with him, is all. He's really been opening up to me about himself, about how he views himself, and I think it's important we continue our work. If he's cut off from that for too long, I'm afraid he'll regress and maybe even stop talking to me."

Yeah, that sounded good.

Joan shrugged.

"Alright then Harleen."

"Harley." She corrected.

"…Harley. Have it your way. I see nothing wrong with it."

She gasped, and almost immediately, she felt tears well up in her eyes. He was totally _battered_. His right eye swollen shut, his lower lip also swollen and cut. He was wearing a short sleeved, medical issue, gown, and she could see the black and blue bruises which ran up and down both his arms.

"Harley, my dear, you came to visit!" He smiled upon seeing her and she wanted so badly just to go to him and wrap him in a giant hug.

He could see the tears forming in her eyes and could tell at any moment her body might start heaving with sobs. That wouldn't do. Any display of personal affect on her part, and it would effectively destroy all of his hard work.

"Harley, sweetheart…" He began gently. "Don't give us away now darling. If they knew you actually cared, they'd surely take you away from me, and I'd be awfully sad."

She bit her lip and nodded, closing her eyes, trying her hardest not to cry. Her fists clenched tight and her head lowered.

"Ohh, I _knew_ there was a reason!" Her voice strained. "Look what they've done to you!"

"Ahh, ahh, ahh." He stopped her, throwing his eyes up towards the window, where the guard was visible.

"Besides," he laughed. "It's not as bad as all that. A few scraps here, a few bruises there, all in a days work, I would say."

God, he was so _brave_. How he managed to laugh at his own misery! It was remarkable.

Her anguish turned suddenly to rage and she walked quickly away from him before again turning around.

"Those… _bastards_ got what they deserved." She spat. "I don't care what anybody says!"

He wanted to laugh. She was coming along so nicely.

"And still… _Still_ they won't believe you! I guess their _excuses_ for killing are only any good when it applies to _them_!" She gestured wildly.

Ohh! Perhaps more nicely then he had thought. His victimized appearance must have accelerated her progress.

"Yes, well, the hypocrisy of man, my dear. It runs rampant among us."

'They think you did this to yourself!" She huffed. "Why would you _ever_ do this to yourself?!"

"_Because it's fun, you mooncalf. That's when you're most alive!!_"

He shrugged.

"And they've got you chained!? Chained like some wild animal!?" She exclaimed with disgust, observing how his hands were cuffed to the bed side. "_They're_ the ones who should be restrained!"

He smiled at her.

"Oh, I'm very accustomed to this sort of thing by now Harley. You really shouldn't concern yourself."

"But you _shouldn't _be accustomed to it! What kind of hospital treats its patients this way!?"

"Oh, it isn't a hospital doll." He corrected her. "It's a prison, for people they've deemed too dangerous to put amongst general population. As I've told you, Harlequin, when society _feels_ threatened by you, that's when they say you're _sick_. It is their means of identifying the social deviant truly capable of effecting change."

She stared at him in wonder.

"…You're right." She whispered finally. "You're right about everything."

"I know." He said, sounding almost bored. He could see the look of awe in her eyes, her attraction growing stronger and stronger.

A moment of silence past between the two.

"So much for getting my privileges reinstated, huh?" He spoke suddenly. And she began to laugh; laugh as though it were the funniest thing in the world. And he just smiled.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14:**

It would be as early as the following week that their regular routine continued. Harley was shocked to see, as the two guards brought him in, looking scared shitless, that nearly all of the injuries The Joker had sustained from 9 days previous were now gone. She'd heard he was known to recover quickly, but he had been beaten so badly, surly it would have taken longer! But not with him. Just another way in which he was exceptional!

She watched the two men handling him with disdain. They didn't even really deserve to be in his presence, let alone touching him the way they were! If anyone should be allowed that, it was her!

He was unusually quiet. He generally would have greeted her, or made some gesture to acknowledge her presence. But now he simply stared ahead, his expression downcast.

She was about to speak when he did.

"You know… my father used to beat me up pretty bad."

She looked up, startled.

"R-really?"

He nodded thoughtfully.

"Any time I would get out of line…BAM!" And he punched the air to demonstrate. "Or sometimes, I'd just be sitting there, doing nothing at all… POW!" Again he punched the air.

She cringed, looking away.

"Pops tended to favor the grape, ya see." He said, contempt suddenly filling his voice.

"Uh-huh." She nodded.

"There was only one time I ever saw my Dad really happy. He took me to the circus when I was about seven, maybe eight years old. And I still remember this one clown… Crazy looking geek with checkered pants. He was running around the ring with this tiny little dog snapping at his heels. It was really driving the poor fool in to a frenzy. So every time," and he began to giggle. "Every time the geek stopped to kick the pup…"

He suddenly was free from his restraints, standing up from the couch, making a whooshing motion with his hands.

"Zwooop! He dropped his pants and fell on his butt!"

And he began to laugh uproariously.

"I remember starring up at the old man in total wonder. Gezz, I thought he'd bust a gut laughing!"

Harley smiled at how animated he was becoming.

"It was rare for him to smile even, let alone laugh! Seeing how happy he was, I decided _I_ wanted to make him laugh too! Give him some of that same happiness!"

She nodded.

"So, the next night, when Dad staggered home from the bar…"

She was filled suddenly with anxiety.

"There I stood in the doorway, wearing his finest pair of Sunday slacks around my ankles."

And he dropped his pair of Arkham issued trousers, revealing his skinny legs.

"'Hi Dad!' I squeaked. 'Look at me!' And zwooop!" He made another whooshing motion. "I took a big pratfall and tore the crotch clean out of his pants!"

Harley began to laugh, so hard tears fell from her eyes, and he laughed with her, slapping his knee in amusement. They continued on like that for several seconds, and she failed to notice as his hilarity died down in to silence.

"…And then he broke my nose."

She was jarred from her hysterics.

"W-what?" She whispered.

He shrugged, lying back down on the couch.

"I still like to think he was aiming for my fanny and missed. At least, that's what I told myself… when I woke up in the hospital three days later."

"Three days?" She whispered, more to herself then to anyone else.

"But hey, that's the downside of comedy." He finished, his tone once again chipper. "You're always taking shots from folks who just don't get the joke. Like my Dad. Or Batman."

She just stared at him for a moment, her eyes filling with tears. This was the first time he'd really confided anything about his past to her. It must have taken so much courage. It was clear to her suddenly. All of his desire to show people the humor in life stemmed from his desire to make his father laugh. Of course! He was only a child, longing for acceptance, for someone to tell him he was good enough. Just like her! All his life, he'd felt the sting of rejection, of people writing him off and dismissing him as nothing, when he was more then they could ever hope to be! So _of course_ he killed! What else did they expect?! They practically told him it was all he could do to garner their attention. It was _their_ ignorance and _their_ selfishness which drove him to it! And then they had the _nerve_ to blame him?! She couldn't believe it! She felt so angry!

And again, for the second time, he had mentioned Batman. Did he correlate his experience with his father with that of his experiences with the vigilante? This was definitely something she was going to have to follow up on. She had to understand, if she were going to be of any use to him.

"Do you want to talk…" She paused, clearing her throat, trying to gain control of her emotions. "Do you want to talk more about… about Batman?" She asked, still unsure.

"Batman?" He questioned. "What exactly would you like to know about our sanctimonious friend?"

She bit down on her lip.

"Well, they…" She hesitated. "They say you're obsessed with him." She held her breath, afraid of his reaction.

"So I am!" He gestured excitedly, sitting up straight.

"You… you are?!" She stammered.

"But of course." He said, as though it should be obvious.

She stared at him, her eyes wide with anticipation.

"Do you… do you see any similarity between how you feel about him and how you feel about your… your father?" She dared to ask.

He laughed lightly.

"Yes dear, perhaps some. In the way he doesn't quite grasp the levity of life."

"Is that why you think you obsess over him then? Because he reminds you of your father?" She asked.

He grinned a boyish grin and then shook his head.

"Oh no Harlequin. Quite the opposite, in fact. It is because he reminds me of _myself_."

She looked startled, and then confused.

"…How?!"

"Oh, he and I are _very_ much alike. In our differences our similarities lie. He would never admit to it, of course. His hate for me is ardent. It would never allow his mind to accept the correlation. But as I am so strongly committed to my convictions, he so is committed to his own, the only differential coming in those convictions being perfect opposites. It's somewhat as if we occupy the same niche, and as the laws of nature dictate, no two life forms can concurrently be allowed to occupy the same space. So we are forever entangled in this beautiful dance, destined to clash with one another for always. He is the straight man to my clown. You understand Harley?"

Of course she wouldn't understand. The sorry simpleton probably thought herself as equal to Batman himself.

"But don't you hate him?" She questioned. "Aren't you always trying to… to kill him?"

Again he laughed.

"I don't hate him, my darling. I admire his dedication. He truly _believes_ in his principles, as misguided as they are, at least he truly believes. That is more then I can say for the _vile _that is the rest of human kind. He is the only person I have encountered, other then myself of course, who possesses the courage to really _sacrifice _for his tenets, who refuses, under any circumstance, to compromise those ideals. I desire only to show him the great joke that is life. But his delusion is egregious; so blinded is he by the fury of his self-righteous indignation for the injustice of the world, that he fails to grasp the absurdity of it all. He cannot find the humor. Everything is regarded with far too much solemnity when it comes to his point of view. I told him one time how certain I was that he had suffered some unspeakable trauma as a boy. It only makes sense. He experienced an irrecoverable loss, grew enraged at the cruelty of life, and reacted as a child would. By playing dress up and fighting against who he perceived to be that cruelties perpetrator! The tragedy for him is that, he will forever suffer, because he is battling against reality dear. One can never be truly _happy_ if they oppose what simply _is_. He of course made certain to beat me unconscious for saying what I did." He laughed. "Which just further reinforced the validity of my suspicions." He paused, looking Harley squarely in the eye. "It's a bit like you, isn't it sweetheart?"

"Hmm, w-what?" She asked. She'd been so transfixed by what he was saying, the question had shook her out of her momentary trance.

"It's a bit like you, I said. You too are fighting against what is, and you're miserable for it."

"I… I'm not sure what you me…"

"You play the role of a professional." He cut her off. "A serious girl with a serious job, doing serious work. But the reality, Harley, the reality is, you're not that girl. No, you're something else entirely, aren't you? You and Batman darling, you both need to learn by my example. I am _exquisitely_ happy. Simply because, I do not dispute it. I do not dispute what I am, or what _life_ is, nor do I wish to. I accept it, with open arms. I embrace it, revel in it, _thrive_ in it. That is what you need Harley. Stop pretending to be something you're not and welcome what you really are. A fun-loving, exuberant little girl, light of heart, and with an eye for adventure!"

She stared at him, open mouthed.

"How…" She muttered. "How is it you know so much?!"

"I simply _do_, my little Harlequin. You've allowed society to dictate to you what you should be, and for so long you've deprived yourself of any delight because of it. Even now, you're allowing them to control you, denying the feelings you have for fear of what they'll think."

Her breath caught in her throat, her heart rate suddenly increasing.

"W-what do you mean?" She stuttered.

"You know what I mean Harley." He said. "And despite what you've been told, there's nothing wrong about it. The world we live in dispirits us by forcing us to deny what we are. You can break away from all that. Don't be afraid. Don't fight what's in your heart beautiful."

She began to sob, almost uncontrollably.

"Harley?"

She looked up at him through blurred vision.

"It's alright." He said. "Come here."

She stared at him, feeling uncertain.

"Don't let them decide for you Harley. You want to come."

Without even really thinking, she stood from her seat and moved towards him. She felt as if she were floating, weightless. And very quickly, she was by his side, having taken the space he'd made for her, looking up in to his face. The vibrancy of his color seemed even deeper close up, and she felt as though she were looking in to a painting. He smiled at her, and very suddenly, she had an incredible desire to kiss him.

"I… I love you." She whispered.

"I know." He answered, running the back of his hand gently down her cheek. "It's okay."


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15:**

Okay, so she loved him. It wasn't a big deal. If she was being honest with herself, she'd known it deep down for a while, but like her puddin' said, she'd been in denial, because she'd been afraid. But now she wasn't! Now she was damn proud of her love. And who wouldn't be with a guy as great as he was!? She just couldn't let anyone know. She wanted to. She wanted to scream it from the mountaintops, she'd said, but he told her she couldn't, that they would never see each other again if she did.

"_They'll never understand Harley._" He'd said. "_They'll think your sick. Just like they say I am._"

"_But you're not!_" She cried. "_You're just misunderstood!_"

"_You__ know that Harley. But they don't understand me like you do. And they won't understand how you could love someone like me. So __don't__ tell them._"

So she went on pretending, at least, in front of them. She began to dread her meetings with Dr. Leland, or having to interact with the rest of those idiotic, judgmental doctors she worked with. They were such fools! Labeling her sweet Mistah J a homicidal maniac when all he really was, was a tormented genius, ahead of his time, longing for love. But they were too _selfish_ to see that!

It was to the point she could hardly make it through her days, feeling the need more and more to be near him. She didn't know how much longer she could bear the pain of their separation. She thought about maybe requesting their sessions be extended to two a week, instead of just one. But even that wouldn't be enough! She wanted to be with him constantly! There had to be a way! Her goals had changed yet again. She now felt driven to make all of them see his brilliance, to make them understand like she did! Otherwise… otherwise, how could they ever, _really_ be together?! Her lower lip trembled at the thought and she felt a sudden, crushing depression. That _couldn't_ be. It just couldn't! She would figure out some way to make it work, even if it was the last thing she did!

"Heh… Hehhehe…" He giggled to himself feverishly. This was so beautiful. So perfectly beautiful.

He thought of her; thought of how he might best hurt her. She was coming with him, he already knew that. She was far too brilliant a masterpiece to not show off, especially to his beloved Batsy. She would have to be paraded, absolutely. His grin widened, imagining the look of horror and disgust on Batman's face when the pompous fool saw what he had done to her. Driving another nail in to his hopes and dreams. He giggled loudly at the thought. Of course, he would have to wait. His doll needed further molding, to be sure. She wasn't quite to the stage he would like her… not quite. He had to make certain of her slave mentality before he could allow her alongside him out there, away from this wretched place. He had to make sure that, in spite of, and maybe even on some subconscious level, because of his abuse, she would stay, her only want and need to please him, forgetting any concern for her self. And, if ever she got in to her head the sentiment she should leave, _truly _leave, well, then he would just kill her. Simple as that. He wanted so much to hurt her though. He could feel the desire aching in his bones he wanted it so much. To see her pretty little face battered and bruised, her eyes blackened, her nose and lip bloodied, tears running down her cheeks from the overpowering anguish she felt. That would have to wait too though. He would be leaving soon, without her. But when the time was right, he would be back, and he would take her then, and she would be his to have.

"Harley, Harley, Harley Quinn, my delicate little toy, my precious marionette. How wonderfully you've come along!" He spoke quietly to himself. "I can't wait for you to see what things I've in store for us…"

His eyes flashed up as he heard footsteps along the corridor floor, and his smile grew, moving quickly to the barred window of his cell door.

"Hey there hot stuff!" He called out to a nurse several feet down. Her head shot up at the sound of his voice, and he laughed wickedly as he watched the tray in her hands jitter. She was afraid.

"What's the matter!?" He yelled after her. "Wrong Donna Summer song?! I suppose _Bad Girls_ would better suit _you_!" And he laughed again.

She tried to ignore him, but he continued to eye her, watching as she stepped up to another inmate's cell and slipped a pill cup through the slot on the door. There was a ruckus, some profanity's uttered aloud, and the sound of pills being thrown.

"Mr. Zsasz, please! You know if you refuse medication orally, then we'll be forced to administer to you through an IV."

There was some grumbling from the serial killer, a few seconds of silence past, and she spoke again. "Very good Mr. Zsasz. You see. That wasn't so hard, now was it?"

The Joker laughed and continued talking as the woman moved towards his cell. "Saaay, you're new, aren't you? Must be rough, having this job. Can't be very rewarding, what with ingrates like Victor down there, always throwing your work aside and acting like spoilt children. Ain't that right Vic!" He mocked the murderer. There was no reply. He kept talking.

"What's your name sweetie?" She wouldn't look at him. "Let me guess. Eileen? No… Amy? Mmmm, no… no, doesn't quite fit. How about Bridgette? I'll bet it's something pretty to match that pretty face of yours!"

She kept at her task, refusing to acknowledge him.

"Well, you're gonna have to help me out here honey pie…" He said once she had gotten to within a door away from his own.

"Otherwise, how will I know what to call it once I've peeled it from your skull and hung it on my wall?" His voice was soft but filled with bad intent.

She froze, dropping the tray of medications, her hands visibly shaking, a gasp escaping her throat, and a moment later, she was running down the hall, towards the exit, sobbing.

He howled with laughter. He just adored giving the nurses a good fright. They almost always ran off in tears. Occasionally he'd even made good on those threats, when the time had allowed it. He _especially_ loved their reactions then.

A minute later and two male orderlies came busting through the door.

"Alright, so which one of you scum bags did it?!" One of them began, walking quickly down the hall, puffed up with indignation.

"I cannot tell a lie Sir." The Joker called out. "It was I!"

The orderly stopped, and any mind he'd had to hand out verbal reparation quickly dissolved. Instead, he hastily gathered up the dropped tray and pills, turned away, and left, the other man following behind.

Medication was generally handed out every day at noon, and for most inmates, it was distributed by a nurse much like the one who had just been in. The Joker had once received his medication in much the same manner, until one day, when slipping the pill cup through the slot in his door, a nurse found her wrist suddenly in his grasp, and her entire arm was soon inside the cell, being twisted and turned with what seemed incredible force, and she screamed bloody murder as the bones cracked and splintered. By the time the guards had gotten to her, she lay slumped on the floor, the limb fractured in 4 places. The staff at Arkham soon learned that The Joker moved too quickly to hand him anything directly and still maintain safety. What was more, they had discovered him shucking the pills and, as they were also soon to learn, he simply couldn't be convinced to do anything he didn't actually want to. So his medication now had to be administered through IV. Not that it mattered, either way. Nothing seemed to have any real affect on his mental state. More then a few times, the guards had complained of being put needlessly in harms way by having to escort The Joker to the medical ward once a day, every day. It came to the point that, despite law requiring they do so, days might have past without him being given his meds, at least, until one of the higher ups found out about the negligence. Simply put, if there was a way to avoid getting near him, then that was what the staff at Arkham usually did.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16:**

The next several weeks between Harley and The Joker consisted almost entirely of her bitter complaints about the world, and how unjust it was if someone like Mistah J was being locked away. He'd laughed at the names she had given him. Mistah J and Puddin'. How elementary. Not unlike herself.

"Can I…" Harley hesitated. "Can I ask you somethin' Mistah J?"

The Joker smiled warmly at her.

"Of course." He said.

"Well… Remember how ya told me I couldn't let anyone know about… about us?!" Her voice shook.

He stared at her intensely.

"Mmm, hmm."

"Well, I was… I was thinkin', ya know, if… if-if they don't know about us, and like you say, and I know you're right about everythin', but like you say, if they won't let us see each other no more if they find out then… then how are we ever gonna make this work!?" Tears spilled from her eyes, soaking her cheeks.

He really was growing weary of the waterworks.

"You'll see Harley dear." He answered her simply. "Just leave everything to me, and all will turn out fine."

"But how Mistah J?"

"All in good time darling. Now come sit with me."

This had been going on for weeks. It was now customary for The Joker to remove himself from his bonds, the moment they were left alone, and Harley would then go to him, almost immediately, sit by him, allow him to put his arm around her without protest or hesitation on her part.

She would cry in to his shirt, blubbering about how sad she felt over her parents having never showed up for a single one of her meets, or how hard she'd tried in school to get good grades, but how it never seemed like enough. Or she would fume about how everyone in high school had treated her like some kind of an airhead, gossiping about her behind her back. And he would console her, telling her it was their loss if they couldn't see what a remarkable young girl she was. She would beam like a child who'd just been told 'job well done.', and hug him tightly around his thin waste.

"_But you could see, couldn't ya Puddin'?!_"

"_Yes, I could Harley._"

"_And ya helped me see myself as I really am! Helped me stop fightin' against what I shoulda' been embracin'!_"

"_Yes, I did Harley._"

Other times, he would share with her made up memories of his own youth, and she would cry for him as he detailed instances of being picked on and roughed up in school, or how his own mother was neglectful and would stand idly by as his father beat him mercilessly.

"_As you can imagine, those were physically awkward years for me, and I didn't enjoy favor among my peers for this reason. By that age, children have long since learned to be cruel, and so it was an especially difficult period… There was one day I recall as distinctly bleak. I had found myself unaccompanied in one of the school's numerous restrooms. I generally dreaded the prospect of class, as I was one of the fortunate few to be unremittingly harried by the less cultivated portion of the student body. In typical fashion, I was attempting a delay of the inevitable, and that was my first point of indiscretion. Some of the institute's meaner boys knew of my having lingered, and had concluded then to confront me. There were four of them and one of me, my dear, and all outweighed me by what can only be described as a substantial amount. It was quite the circumstance of inequity." He laughed. "They then progressed to lambaste with all manner of verbal outrage, before unceremoniously thrashing me to a bloody pulp and leaving me to be found by a member of the faculty as indifferent as they…" He paused, appearing despondent. "What was worse was Dad's reaction when made aware of what had happened…" He shook his head. "Disappointment would probably best characterize his feelings. The old man took me for a pansy from then on, and pronounced further pummeling an ideal solution to this particular problem."_

The reality was, The Joker couldn't remember anything of his life before he became what he was, and he didn't care to either. But still, she believed in every word he said.

And frequently, he would relay the excitement of one of his many urban exploits.

"_Oh, you should have been there Harley! I had dear old Batsy with his hands full that night, boy! Every few minutes, I'd have one of my hirelings set off some new disaster. Robberies, fires, muggings, assaults, domestic disputes, you name it, I had it going! And there he was! Running from one disturbance to another, trying to keep everything well managed! He was doing rather decent, considering the police and fire departments were, as always, useless. Though by the time the sun began its rise, he had been stretched to the utmost extent. When he chased Julianne down to that abandoned warehouse and found me, dressed up in my darling little policeman's uniform, he was ready to pummel anyone who so much as __breathed__ in a manner unappealing to him, haha!. I, of course, was eager to make my stage entry. Oh, I __was__ magnificent Harley, pointing my gun at Julianne, making my case to Batboob that if he were to arrest me from firing, it would be both my responsibility __and__ his if the thug hurt anyone else. And then I saw it! There, in his eyes, in the barely perceptible nod of his head. I saw the agreement! He had __wante__d that man dead Harley-girl. If I hadn't been enjoying that moment with such verve, he would never have intervened and Julianne would no longer be among us. But he had __wanted__ it, had been willing to stand down for the mere moments it would have taken me to pull that trigger. Of course, my fleeting delay was enough time for him to remember his principles, and he snatched the gun from me. And he then deduced who was behind the badge. It took him long enough, I should say! And I told him Harley, I told him I knew what he had thought, and that there was no taking it back. Oh, he tried valiantly to pretend it meant not a thing, but I knew better. If he had conceived of it, then he was capable of it. And I let him know that. I let him know that, perhaps, he isn't so far above where I am, after all. He wasn't very pleased!_"

_The Joker laughed._

"_But he __isn't__ better then you Puddin'! He's not half the man you are!" She cried._

"_I know." He patted her gently upon the head. "It's the Bat who needs reminding. He is, after all, so self-righteous, wanting desperately to believe himself beyond such primal desires. My gift was to prove to him otherwise. And I did! That was, indeed, one of my more gratifying exhibitions!" He paused. _

"_But, you know, maybe the __best __part of that night was when I bombed The Penguins headquarters, just for good measure. You shoulda' seen old Ossie the next morning! There he was, all over News Nine; his fat face twisted in a rage, __demanding__ justice be done, haha!"_

_And they laughed together._

"_I wish I coulda' been there with you Mistah J!" She gushed._

_He smiled._

"_Perhaps, someday soon, you can be…"_

So she went to him again.

"You're so good to me Mistah J." She cooed against his shoulder. "So supportive and caring. Always makin' time to hear me out."

He ran his hand gently through her hair, nodding.

"It's easy darling, when it's what you need."

He held a lock tight between his fingers and without warning, tugged at it sharply.

"Ow!" She squealed.

He looked at her, his eyes dark.

"But I need something from you too Harley." He whispered in to her ear. "You understand me, yes? You understand me when others cannot?"

She nodded slowly, an expression of uncertainty in her eyes.

"Then I need you to let me hurt you." He grasped her arm, his fingers pressing painfully in to the soft flesh, pulling her roughly towards him. "If you're going to be at my side, you're going to have to accept me for all that I am. _Every_ _part_ of me." The pressure on her arm tightened and she gasped in pain. "Can you do that for me Harlequin? Do you understand me like you say you do?" And his other hand held gently along her neck.

She felt both a mixture of fear and elation. Fear from the pain he was inflicting, elation at the fact he _needed_ her, for something, _anything_.

Her head nodded, and she bit her lip.

"I… I do! I p-promise I do." She whimpered.

"Then this _can_ work Harley." His voice hissed. "I'll see to that." And his fingers squeezed around her throat, and she gurgled and chocked as the air to her lungs began to fade.

What seemed an eternity later, he let go and she gasped for breath as if coming to the surface of water. He studied her carefully as she lent forward, grasping at her throat, hacking almost uncontrollably, her neck and arm both throbbing with pain.

After a time, he at last spoke.

"Do you love me Harley?" He asked.

She looked up at him, tears falling from the corners of her eyes, a result of her breath having been restricted. His gaze penetrated through her completely and she became lost in its intensity. He never moved; his eyes never shifted.

"I- I do." She stammered finally.

"Then you understand true love can _only_ be unconditional. You love every part of me or you do not love me at all." He said.

She nodded, her eyes big and wet, like a lost puppy.

And he smiled.

"That's a good Harlequin." He gently caressed her cheek, starring in to her face, before pulling her in to a hug, rocking her lightly back and forth, one hand tenderly rubbing along her back.

And she _did_ understand. If he had to hurt her, so be it! He was full of so much pain, so much suffering, and if she could act as his rock, if she could absorb some of that pain and take it away from him, then that was what she was going to have to do! She suddenly warmed at the thought that she could be that for him, be a buffer to his anguish. Just as he had given her his shoulder to cry on, allowing him to hurt her would be like giving him the same. It was just his way of relieving the torment he felt. His own, special way. Just like he said, _unconditional_! He needed her, to support him, to understand him. Nobody else would. Nobody else _could_!

She allowed herself to sink against him, her body melting in to his, and she couldn't explain why, but she felt more safe there, in his arms, then she had ever felt anywhere before. As though _there_ was where she belonged; like any place with him was the place she could call home.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17:**

The Joker lay sprawled across his cot, his hands folded behind his head, his knees bent and legs crossed, whistling some upbeat melody.

Night had come. At 10:00 PM sharp, the lights would go out. It was now 9:45.

He was waiting.

The guards were doing their rounds, checking that the cells were securely locked. He listened as they spoke amongst them selves. They sounded tired.

"Ten minutes clown!" One of them banged on his door.

"Yes Mother!" He called out.

No one else had noticed. He was mildly surprised. Though he told himself he shouldn't be. None were so observant as he. Not even Nigma.

He'd discovered it the day following its instillation. The lighting in this place used up a large percentage of the buildings power supply. A mighty large percentage. When ten o'clock came, and all those high voltage, florescent bulbs which washed the asylum in glaring brightness during the day went off, after all but a skeleton crew of guards working the graveyard shift had gone home for the night, for the briefest of moments, those high-cost, high-maintenance, fool-proof electronic locks, well, they lost power. For a _fraction _of a second. _Exactly_ at the moment the lights kicked off.

The blow out from all that electricity being so suddenly cut was momentarily scrambling the signals to the security system, and he had noticed. By watching that key pad outside his door. The little red light which blinked alongside its edge, the one which indicated the locks were in place, it had stopped blinking for, at most, two, maybe three one hundredths of a second, at exactly 10:00 o'clock at night. And he had noticed.

And now, he was waiting.

He listened for the guards, and when he felt satisfied they had made their leave, he stood from his cot and moved towards the door. When it was lights out, the high max security wing became nearly pitch black, save for the glow of the exit sign above the hallway door and four, dimly lit red lights which sat in pairs at either end of the ward. Effectively, you couldn't really see. Nobody hung around in the area after ten, except for the cells occupants. They didn't really have a choice. At least, they didn't _know_ they had. All guards in for the night were stationed either directly outside or on other floors.

The Joker leaned against the cold metal, his eyes peering out from behind the bars of the window, scanning up and down the hall. Nobody around. He smiled, gripping the handle. And when the moment came, when he heard the dissipating of power and his eyes filled with the dark, he quickly pushed in and slid that handle left, and the door popped open, making a slight whooshing noise.

He waited a further 30 seconds, knowing the night vision security camera, stationed along the wall at his end, needed a chance to scan away before he could move without being seen, and then he pushed, and the door moved forward with a creak; a loud creak. But another detail of the high security wing, it was sound-proof. Nobody wanted to hear the constant screaming and crying… and laughing. They wanted to leave the place behind them once they had left.

He stepped with hast from the cell and edged along the wall. There was another security camera 50 feet down, on the opposite side, but he had timed that as well, and knew that it rotated at exactly 30 second intervals in opposing conjunction with the other one, so that, at nearly all times, it gave a full spectrum view of the area. But there was a blind spot, when the two cameras met half way, and they gave an image of the same point. He moved to the other wall when he timed their joining, and continued this action all down the corridor. He knew the place so well, his sight wasn't necessary for him to know where he was going.

"How did you get out?!" He heard Dr. Crane's voice echo against the walls and he stopped, looking in the direction it had come from.

"None of your beeswax Scarechum!" He called back and laughed.

He thought back to when the two had briefly partnered during that mass breakout from Arkham. He giggled recalling how Crane had tried dosing him with that fear toxin of his, and how shocked he had been when it had no effect; and how much _more_ shocked he had been when that chair broke over his back!

"_Like I'm going to tell that humorless bag of bones. Not when he's unable to provide me a decent audience._"

Once he reached the wings exit, he didn't waste a moment's hesitation in opening it. He knew that only Daniel would be stationed directly outside the door, and the slob was usually asleep within 5 minutes past the hour. But if not, that wouldn't present much of a problem either. There would be two other guards stationed near the back of the lobby, around a wide corner where the stare wells were located, and two more still by the elevators. The rest of the night staff would be standing watch on the more upper levels.

The Joker looked out and saw Daniel with his feet propped up on to the desk, laughing mindlessly at some ridiculous sit com on his 10 inch TV set, a doughnut squeezing between his chubby fingers. He hadn't even been watching the security monitors. The Joker rolled his eyes at how easy they made it before moving quickly, coming up silently behind the clueless guard, his long hand clamping tight over his mouth and nose, pulling him to the floor and crushing his larynx before he had a chance to make a sound.

The rest would be even more simple. He relieved the now dying Daniel of his nightstick and gun and strolled out, in to the open. He was within ten feet of the two guards by the lifts before they saw him.

"J-Jesus fucking Christ…" The one on the left stammered, reaching for his pistol, his hands shaking. The other began to do the same.

"Hello boys!" The Joker greeted calmly, continuing to move forward.

He stopped momentarily, watching in amusement as they fumbled to unlatch the guns from their holsters, before bringing his own up and shooting them in succession, point blank in the face.

The shots rang out loudly, and The Joker stepped over the bodies, walking fast towards where he knew the other two guards would come from. Seconds later they appeared, their hands at their pistols. Their faces held an expression of pure horror as they took in the death before them, blood seeping in huge puddles from beneath their two fallen comrades.

"Good evening children!" The Joker had been waiting as they'd come around the corner, already within a few feet of where they stood, his gun pointed at their hearts, before they had even had a chance to react. His eyebrows shot up in surprise and his smile widened.

"Richard! John!" He exclaimed. "Now this _is_ a pleasant surprise. They've moved you to graveyard duty I see. How exceptionally convenient for us. We never _did_ get to finish that little game of ours, did we? But my, aren't you the fortunate few? Presented another occasion!"

John grabbed for his radio with unsteady hands.

"C-code red, code red!" His voice shook. "We have a breach of security, level seven! Repeat! There's been a breach of security, level seven. Inmate 0284 has escaped! Repeat, inmate ! Two men down!"

"S-s-stay where you are J-Joker!" Richard began, trying to move with subtly for his gun. "Y-you'll never make it outta h-here. T-there's guards on-on every floor."

The Joker laughed loudly. One source of enjoyment which appealed to him greatly was how powerless the presiding authorities were to stop him. That was, in part, a motivator for his escapes; how much fun he had in frustrating their efforts to keep him confined.

"Oh, I think I'll manage." He said.

Another shot sounded, blood and bone fragments went flying, and Richard fell to the floor, grasping at his knee, wailing in agony.

John tried desperately to lift his gun, but another shot was fired, and he too fell to the floor, the bullet having penetrated through his right shoulder.

The Joker hop-skipped to where they lay, twirling the club in his hand as though it were a baton, and walked delicately about them, starring down as they squirmed and rolled in anguish.

"Now which of you merry men is going to play the role of hostage, and which of your brains do I get to beat out sooner, rather then later?" He asked, his tone sunny and light.

They both gurgled and whimpered in pain.

He bent down closer to them.

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

He received the same, unintelligible noises.

"Oh, stop whining!" The Joker chastised. "It's only a minor flesh wound! Nothing to cry home about. That's the problem with you people, always making mountains out of a moll hills!"

He studied them for a moment, his brow furrowed in curiosity, as though something vexed him.

John again tried to reach for his gun, which had fallen a foot from where he lay. But he never did find it, as something smashed hard against his face, shattering his cheek bone and jaw.

"Well, it appears as though we have a volunteer for our aforementioned option." The Joker declared, and again brought the club down across John's face.

Richard watched in sheer terror as The Joker again and again swung the weapon down on John's skull, each blow coming harder and harder, with more vicious, more malevolent intent. And he laughed while he did it. He laughed with glee; as though it were the world's greatest joke.

By the time he'd finished, John's face and head were wholly indistinguishable. He'd been completely disfigured, and Richard began to cry.

The Joker gazed at him with falsely sympathetic eyes.

"Oh, you poor babe." He spoke quietly. "Feeling left out? Well, don't you fret, because uncle Joker would never _dream_ of letting our dear, dead John have _all_ the fun."

He stepped over to Richard, bending down to eye level, looking over the petrified watchman.

"Oh, Rich…" He shook his head, seeing the dark stain which now was expanding over the crotch of the guard's pants. "Weren't you taught to ask _permission_ before relieving yourself? It's so terribly crude, just _going _like that. I mean, really." He sounded indignant.

"P-please… please d-don't kill m-me." He begged. "I… I have a w-wife… _children_!"

The Joker sighed, rolling his eyes.

"Such a drab entreaty! Rich, _please_, you could at least _try_ being creative!"

He grabbed hold of the guard's collar, dragging him to his feet.

The alarms began to sound then and his smile broadened.

"Time to go now, baby doll." He said, kissing Richard's blood smeared cheek.

The door to the stair well flung open and The Joker came out with Richard in front, his arm wrapped tightly around the guard's throat, a gun pressed forcefully to his temple.

The men who had been watching the elevators swung around to meet them, their guns aimed.

The Joker gasped theatrically and then spoke with enthusiasm.

"What reception! I never imagined myself to be met with such grandeur, such expectancy! Though, I must confess, my grossly exaggerated humility does, at times, impede on my ability to see my own, immeasurable worth. But of course, that brings us to the purpose of you lovelies! To remind me of how truly fabulous I am!"

He grinned maliciously, seeing the fear in their eyes. They were _still_ afraid of him, even in outnumbering him fifteen to one. He moved towards the exit and they followed him with their guns.

"Parting is such sweet sorrow!" He exclaimed, backing towards the front entry of the asylum.

"Oh God, somebody help me! PLEASE!" Richard cried.

"Joker, let him go!" One of the guards shouted.

The Joker laughed and shook his head.

"Oh no, no, no. And ruin the evening's festivities?! That just simply wouldn't do."

"Please Joker. Just let him go and we _won't_ fire!"

"Is that a promise?!"

"Yes. Yes, it's a promise! Now _please_!"

The Joker's grin widened. His back was against the door now, pressing against the handle.

"Well, maybe…" And he paused, looking contemplative, his eyes cast vaguely upward as though deep in thought.

"Mmm, on second thought…noooo..."

He pulled the trigger, scattering Richard's brains across the floor, dropping the body while falling against the door. It swung open and he fell backwards through it, instantly disappearing in to a thick growth of shrubbery along the entryways sides.

Immediately the guards rushed forward. But it was too late. By the time they'd reached the door, The Joker had bolted from the bushes, behind one of the numerous tall trees which punctuated the asylums landscape. And while they searched frantically among the shrubbery, he darted towards the gate which encompassed the grounds, scaling its height of fifteen feet with remarkable ease, to the other side, before dropping to the dirt and grass below. He looked back in delight, towards the incompetents as they scattered about the property, the giant searchlight affixed to Arkham's roof tower bathing the area in day glow brightness. And before it could wash over to where he had stood, watching them, he was gone, off in to the heart of the city, swallowed up by the darkness.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18:**

The place was an absolute horror show. Blood drenched the floors of the front entry way and maximum security level, along with bone fragments and brain matter. The east side stair well was furnished with much of the same. Rookie police officers were needing to be led away, complaining of nausea. Nurses and orderlies who had come in to work that morning were crying, needing to be consoled. The doctors and higher ups were running around like chickens with their heads cut off. Arkham asylum, to say the least, was in total disarray.

Harley had come in late. Her alarm hadn't gone off. Or, maybe it had, and she had just killed it before falling back asleep. She'd been up late again, like every other night for the past 3 months, thinking of _him_.

Either way, when she at last had arrived, she was utterly confused, and panic shot through her as she caught sight of the yellow police lines, and nearly the whole of Arkham's staff wondering dazedly about outside. She rushed up to the barricades, trying to push herself through.

"Excuse me miss, you can't come through here!" A female police officer stopped her.

"What's going on!?" Harley demanded, her voice filled with concern.

The officer ignored her question and told her she had to step back; that no one was allowed inside.

"Why?! What's happened? Tell me what's happened?!" She demanded.

She suddenly felt a hand on her shoulder and spun round to find Dr. Leland standing there.

"Joan, what's going on?!" She asked frantically. "These people won't tell me anything."

"Harley there's… there's been an incident."

"An… an incident? What do you mean?!"

The older woman sighed.

"Harley, The Joker escaped…"

Her eyes widened.

"What! When?!"

"Last night. There were five guards downed, and the police aren't telling me much, but from the looks of things, it doesn't look like any of them survived." Joan shook her head, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "It's a real nightmare. They say the whole thing happened in about ten minutes."

Harley covered her mouth with her hand and she began shaking, tears almost immediately forming in her eyes.

"Oh God." Her voice wavered.

"It's alright Harley." Joan tried to reassure her. "I know it's a lot to handle. But you don't have to worry. The police will get him back. No ones going to let him hurt you."

Harley wanted to push Dr. Leland away when she said that. She wasn't _worried_ about herself. They just didn't _understand_. She wanted so much to ask if he'd been hurt in the escape. But she knew she couldn't.

She just nodded and turned away.

"The police are probably going to want to speak with you Harley!" Joan called after her, but she didn't respond.

The police?! _Fuck_ the police! Even if she knew where he had gone, the last thing she would _ever_ do is betray her Puddin' by telling _them_.

She felt like she was going to be sick, running off, back towards her car. She had to get away.

Weeks had past, and still there had been no break in locating The Joker's whereabouts. He'd been in the news plenty, the various media and print outlets keeping close track of his activities, reporting each day, it seemed, on some new body uncovered by police, many sporting the gruesome death-mask grin that was the tell tale sign of his oft used poison. Others were simply hacked to death, stabbed, or shot, the only evidence showing him to be the perpetrator being the joker playing card left near each victim.

Harley leaned back against her chair, having finished reading an article detailing yet another of his murders. This one had differed from the others, however, by reviewing the trade-mark toxin found often in the systems of his victims. The Joker had designed and engineered it himself, and it had been classified as a cerebro-spinal neurotic, a toxic agent whose main action is upon the brain and spinal cord. Once exposed to the gas, or sometimes liquid, the article continued, it would enter the blood stream and begin to affect the central nervous system, inducing in its victims almost instantaneous convulsions, or sever tremors, a state of total delirium in the form of hysterical laughter, and eventually paralysis, soon followed by death, brought on by heart failure. The Joker had somehow managed to engineer the paralysis inducing compounds of the poison to pull its targets facial muscles in to a grin. The article went on to state that medical physicians were continually confounded by this particular method of killing, as each time they developed an antidote to what the media had dubbed "Joker-venom", The Joker would change some component of the poisons genetic make-up, much like the common flu routinely changes form, leaving them to start from scratch.

She sighed, smiling to herself. Her man was _such_ a genius.

Her smile soon vanished though as she thought of him, out there, in that big, mean city, frightened and all alone! She could barely stand it! She was so worried! And she missed him so much. The days seemed to drag on in to eternity, and on Friday's, she found herself simply starring at the wall, imagining him in the room with her, holding her tight, kissing her cheek gently, speaking softly in that poetic manner that he did. She prayed to God that her Puddin' would be brought back to her in one piece.

"Hey Batman!" The Joker mocked the vigilante from across the street. "You missed me by a mile! Must be going blind in your old age, huh!?"

Batman starred determinedly at the madman. He'd finally located him after weeks of searching, parading around some worn down neighborhood, harassing any vagrant unfortunate enough to cross his path. He had come down on him from the building tops, knocking him on to his face.

"_Get up Joker!" He ordered._

_The Joker began to laugh, pushing himself up, starring down at his own blood on the pavement below. He licked his lips to taste it._

"_Darling! What took you so long!?" He turned over, looking up in to Batman's face. "I've waited for weeks!"_

"_Get up Joker. You're going back to Arkham!"_

_He laughed again._

"_You know, I thought you'd have picked up on the clues I left you before now. They were so obvious, really. A __child__ could have gleaned where I was. I think perhaps it would serve you well to go back to police academy and work on those detective skills of yours. Just from me to you, they seem to be lacking as of late. At least, they've appeared sub-par our last few times about the merry-go-round."_

_Batman moved in on him, grabbing him by the lapels of his jacket, lifting him up off the ground._

"_Enough of your games Joker." He spit. "You're coming with me."_

_The Joker held on to Batman's hands, throwing his head back and howling with laughter._

"_Of course I am honey-bear. But not before you and I have some fun. Isn't that right?"_

_Batman ground his teeth, swinging The Joker around and slamming him hard against the brick wall of the abandoned building beside them. The Joker laughed harder still, almost unable to breathe he laughed so hard._

"_Come on gorgeous! That didn't even register. Don't hold back on my account!"_

_Batman fumed. Why the __hell__ was The Joker always able to irritate him so!? None of the other rogues had this affect on him! Not a single one. Out of all of them, The Joker was the only one who ever, really caused emotion to factor in to his actions, who made him truly __angry__. The only one who made him __want__ to be violent._

"_Shut up." He barked, tossing the madman to the ground. _

The Joker had leapt to his feet with that inexplicable quickness he had, now starring Batman directly in the eyes.

"Make me." He'd said.

So Batman had tossed one of his metal baterangs in The Joker's direction, and he had ducked down, just in time, so that the object flew right over his head, and he then darted across the street.

And now here they were, starring each other down. The vigilante could see The Joker thinking. He was _always_ thinking. His mind never stopped. If you wanted to beat him, you had to try and keep pace with his thoughts. And that was nearly impossible. The Joker saw things that no one else seemed able to see, he saw options and outs and ways of getting the upper hand that were anything but obvious. Batman soon learned that, if he were going to have any chance against the madman, he was going to have to see those exact same things, predict them, and then prevent them from being utilized. But how could you predict against someone so totally unpredictable, when your opponent viewed things in such a disorganized, illogical fashion, and acted in the same, disjointed manner? He was, doubtless, the vigilante's greatest foe. Not because he presented any sort of exceptional, physical threat; he'd always been handled easily enough when it came to pitting against each other in an actual fight; no, it was because of his erraticism, and of how totally _uncaring_ he was for anything or anyone; his total disregard for life or emotion or anything held sacred. It was what made him so immeasurably dangerous. He couldn't be counted on to do anything, to act in any way, couldn't be convinced or persuaded… couldn't be frightened.

Batman often questioned if The Joker wasn't just simply _allowing _himself to be caught. He always seemed so unaffected by it, so care free and whimsical about the whole thing, often laughing incessantly on his way back to the asylum. And when he _did _escape from Batman, it was when he seemed more somber, almost angry, not quite so light hearted as he usually was, like he hadn't expected to be found yet, like wasn't _ready_ to go back. At those times, The Joker seemed almost _always_ to get away.

That notion, that The Joker could prevent his own apprehension whenever he saw fit, unsettled Batman more then he cared to admit.

He moved towards the lunatic, his cape billowing behind him.

"Oh sweetheart, don't get maaad." The Joker teased, doing a soft-shoe on the concrete. "We can't all be ageless. I just happen to be the exception!" And he beamed, touching his own face with a gloved hand, as though it were the most delicate, beautiful thing in the world.

Within 5 feet of him, there was suddenly a puff of purple smoke in his face, and tiny little sparks of glowing orange flickered before his eyes. "_Him and his damn magic tricks!_" Batman grumbled to himself, waving a hand before him, trying to clear the air.

"Boo! Madja' look!" The Joker giggled insanely, and the next instant, Batman felt a sharp sting in his right arm and knew The Joker had sunk something in to him. At first he panicked, thinking it might have been a syringe, pulling at the object. He was relieved to find it had only been one of those customized, metal edged playing cards, and he tossed the thing to the ground in disgust before turning to face his enemy. The Joker was standing about ten feet back from him, grinning wildly.

"Enough of this you psychotic degenerate!" He hissed, moving quickly towards him.

"Flattery will get you no where Batsy-babe."

He threw another card and Batman side stepped it with ease.

"Aww, you really _don't_ feel like playing any more, do you?" The Joker sounded dejected, reaching in to his jacket.

He had his gun pulled half way out before Batman was on him, and he latched on to The Joker's wrist with vicious pressure, causing him to drop the firearm.

"We're _done_ Joker!"

The maniac smiled lovingly at him.

"Oh, and here I was, thinking we'd finally worked out our differences and found that special spark again!"

Batman's grip tightened on his wrist.

"Ooo hoohoo." The Joker laughed. "That actually _hurts _darling…" And he paused for dramatic effect. "Break it for me baby doll! Show me you really care!"

Batman felt total disgust and he brought his fist up in to The Joker's abdomen, causing the lunatic to drop to his knees.

"That's…" he coughed, gripping his stomach, … "that's right sweetheart. That's _just _how I like it." And he giggled manically.

Batman was swinging in to an uppercut when it seemed out of nowhere The Joker produced a knife and sunk the bastard in to his hand, the one grasping the madman's wrist. On reflex he dropped him and again The Joker was on his feet.

He didn't move. He just stood there and watched as Batman gritted his teeth and pulled the blade from him self.

And he began to speak as the vigilante looked up at him.

"You know you're my bestest friend in the whole world, don't you Batsy?"

"I'm no friend of yours!" He answered back in hatred.

The Joker ignored him.

"And bestest friends do nice things for each other, don't they muffin?"

Batman moved in quickly, smashing his fist in to The Joker's face, causing him to land hard against the pavement below. The vigilante leaned over him, pinning his wiry legs down with his own and doing the same to his arms before he could move to get up.

The Joker kept talking.

"So I've done something especially for you Batman. I've made you a special gift."

Batman turned him over, pulling his arms forcefully behind his back to cuff them. The Joker didn't struggle against it.

"I can't wait for you to see it. You'll be so pleased… I hope."

Batman pushed him over on to his back again, leaning down close to his face.

"What the _hell_ are you talking about?" He hissed in to his ear.

The Joker giggled.

"You'll see hon. Maybe sooner then you think, you'll see."

Harley was slumped in her office chair, her head leaned against a balled up fist, drawing ridiculous doodles of her and The Joker, with little hearts encircling the two. She was miserable. There was no two ways about it. She missed her Puddin' so badly, and she was so anxiety ridden over his well being that she hadn't been able to sleep at night, or even eat. She was sure she'd lost at least five pounds, and the bags under her eyes were growing darker by the day. It had gotten so bad that she wasn't even _trying_ to communicate with her other patients anymore, just letting them talk through the entire hour without her saying a word, and if they didn't feel like talking, she wouldn't try to encourage them. All she could think about anymore was Mistah J, where he could possibly be, and whether he was alright or not.

She was snapped from her haze by the sound of a loud ruckus, coming from the hall outside her room, and she looked up in attention as several nurses and guards went rushing past her door.

She jumped to her feet.

"What's going on?!" She asked in alarm to one of the passing women.

"It's The Joker! Batman's brought him in!" She answered, breathless.

"What!?" Harley gasped. "Oh… Oh my God." Her voice shook and she covered her mouth with her hand. She could already feel tears of happiness at the back of her eyes.

"Come on!" The nurse said, hurrying forward.

Harley didn't hesitate to follow.

When they'd reached the lobby, they were met with a crowd looking to consist of the entire Arkham employ, all grouped together in a circle. Harley pushed her way through them, shouldering and elbowing to make a path. When at last she made it to the front, she nearly collapsed from the sight before her.

There was Batman, the most massive man she'd ever seen! And The Joker, her Puddin'! Battered to a pulp, his lip cut, his eyes blackened, his nose dripping blood, his beautiful purple suit torn and soiled. He hung limply by the collar from Batman's hand, his arms shackled behind his back. Suddenly Harley's surprise turned to rage, and she lunged forward, falling to her knees, tears welling up in her eyes as she cradled the love of her life.

Almost instantaneously she was pulled away by the surrounding orderlies.

"Are you out of your mind!?" One of them exclaimed.

"I'm- I-I'm his doctor. This- this isn't right!" She breathed out, her voice trembling in fury. "He needs my help! Can't you see that?! Can't you see he needs me!" Her eyes flashed up to Batman, and his own widened in shock at the pure hatred he saw there. His grip released from the madman and The Joker began a low chuckle. A chuckle which soon grew to a laugh, one of absolute cruelty as his head rolled back and he looked up at the masked man behind him, his eyes filled with a sadistic pleasure, and storming with such meanness; a meanness only he could ever possess. And as the vigilante began slowly to back away, his limbs growing heavy and numb with the realization of what the lunatic had done, The Joker began to speak.

"It's all for you Batman." He whispered quietly. "Remember… I did it for you."


	19. Chapter 19

**Epilogue:**

"_Have you ever had a girlfriend Joker?"_

_He gazed at her hard for a long while. _

"_No… I've never had one of those."_

"_Well what about a… what about a boyfriend?"_

_His head shook slowly, his expression unmoved._

"_No. I've never had one of those either."_

"_Well you can't be…" Her eyes widened in disbelief._

_He laughed lightly._

"_No Dr. Quinzel, I assure you, I am __no__ virgin."_

"_Then you've had lovers?"_

"_I've had what you __might__ call lovers, yes."_

"…_What do you mean __might __call?"_

"_The term __lovers__, Dr. Quinzel, refers to something rather indicative. It of course can evoke many sort of connotation, but in a very literal sense, it would be difficult for me to justify the term with what I've experienced."_

_She starred at him._

"_Do you… do you mean you've never felt love for anything?"_

"_Oh no Dr. Quinzel! Please, do not misunderstand me. __I__ have loved many a thing, with great ardor, great __passion__, I have loved!"_

_He paused, looking away from her suddenly._

"_My meaning dear is that, towards me, no one has ever felt such an emotion."_

_Her breath caught abruptly in her throat._

"_No one?" Her voice just barely came out._

_He did not say anything; just stared ahead, as though lost in another place in time._

_She felt her heart sink, weighed down by an inexorable pain, and her vision at once blurred, her eyes washed over by tears._

_She looked away, unable to endure the torment the sight of him suddenly brought._

_How could anyone bear such suffering and still smile as he did? _

_It wasn't right, for anyone to be deprived as he had been, to never be shown affection._

_She looked up at him, wiping at her eyes._

_Everyone deserved to be loved… by someone._


End file.
